/ 


ii  ' 


■'] 


IV ALT  IVhITMAN 


BY 

RICHARD  MAURICE  BUCKE,  M.  D. 

Author  of  "  Man's  Moral  Nature." 


PUBLISHED  BY 

DAVID  McKAY,  23  South  Ninth  Street 

P  H  I  L  A  D  E  I,  P  H  I A 

1883 


i."4927 

PS  -f^^\ 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1883,  hy  Wilmam  D. 
O'Connor,  in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Wash- 
ington. 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION, 

Chronological  Forecast  o'  W.  W.'s  Life,  and  the  Successive  Publi- 
cations  of  Leaves  of  Grass, 


PAGES 

7 


8- 


-lO 


PART    I. 


Chapter  I.— BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 
Excerpt  from  W.  W. — Personal  History  of  Authors, 
List  of  the  WTiitman  Family, 
Remote  Ancestry  of  W.  W.,  .... 

On  the  Mother's  Side 

Immediate  Ancestry, 

HoUandic  Elements 

Brooklyn  and  New  York  Training, 
A  Happy  and  Free  Life,  iS  ;5-'45, 
i847-'49 — Jaunt  to  Louisiana, 

1850  to  185s 

Letter  from  Helen  Price,        .... 

Letter  from  Thomas  Gere 

The  Secession  Outbreak. — First  Fredericksburg, 

War's  Darkest  Times, 

Letter  from  John  Swinton,     .... 

Letter  from  G.  S.  McWatters, 

Letter  by  W.  W.,  from  Washington,  1863, 

An  Occurrence  in  1865,  .... 

Pen-Portraits  of  W.  W.— iS64-'72, 

A  Paralytic  Stroke,         ..... 

Illness  of  i873-'4-'5, 

(3) 


12 

13 
14 

15 

16 

17 
19 
21 

23 

25 

26 

34 
35 
36 
37 
38- 

41 

42 — 44 

45 
47 


32 


-40 


Contents. 


VKr.vs 

Cfuiptfr  II.— THE  POET  IN  iSSc—PERSONNF I.,  Elc. 

Face. — Senses.  —  I'liysijue, 4q 

Dress. — Ideal  of  Life. — Temper, 5 1 

Singing.— Reciting  Poetry, 53 

I  lis  l-'onclness  for  Children,    ........  55 

After  the  Rest,  a  Repellent  Side, 57 


Chapter  II. T.— HIS  CONVERSATION, 

APPENDIX  TO  PART  I. 
Excerpt  from  Letter,  Mobile,  Ala., 
Introductory  Lettkr,  1883, 
"The  Good  Gray  Poet."     (i865-'6.) 
Two  Subsequent  Letters, 


59 — 70 

72 

73 — 98 
99—130 

130—132 


PART    II. 


Chapter  I— HISTORY  OF  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 
The  Successive  Editions,  from  1855  to  1 882, 
The  Attempted  Official  Suppression,     .... 
Completed  Works,  1 882-'83 


Chapter  II.— ANAL  YSIS  OF  POEMS,  Etc. 

His  Poetic  and  Prose  Lessons, 

His  Rhythmic  Interior, 

His  Central  Poem, 

Backgrounds  of  Meaning, 

The  Theme  of  Sexuality, 

J.  B.  Marvin's  Criticism, 

A  Manly  Friendship,  Sane,  Heroic,  Passicr.-vte, 

W.  W.'s  Self-Drawn  Portrait,  i860, 

Emotional  Element  of  "  Drum-Taps," 

«'  Prayer  of  Columbus," 


135—147 
149-151 

153 


155 
»S7 
159 

161 
163 

165 
167 
169 
171 

173 


Chapter  III— ANAL  YSIS  OF  POEMS,  Continued. 

Difficulty  of  Understanding  L.  of  G .         .  175 — 176 

The  Poems  *'  A  Picture  of  the  World  as  Seen  from  the  Stand- 
point of  the  Highest  Moral  Elevation,"      ....  178 

The  herald  of  a  New  Religious  Era, 183 

"  The  Bible  of  Democracy," 185 

Exalt  the  Commonest  Life, 187 

A  Thought,  Reading  the  Biblic  Poems, 189 


Contents. 


APPENDIX    TO    PART   IT.  — CONTEMPORANEOUS 

CRITICISMS,  Etc.,  /Sjj-fSSj. 
Initials  and  Outlines,     15rookIyn,  1855, 
1X56,  Emerson  to  Carlyle,    . 
The  "  Imprints"  of  i860,     . 
A  Boston  Critic  ••  At  a  Loss," 
Criticism  by  Freili^'iath  (German), 
Letter  of  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  England, 
A  I'rcnch  Literary  Opinion, 
From  "  Matador,"  New  York, 
Idealism  of  Leaves  of  Grass, 
I'oets'  Trilnitcs,    .... 
Arran  Leigh,  England, 
A  Tourist's  Interview, 
Frank  W.  Walters,  England, 
Jaunt  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  1879, 
Visit  to  Long  Island  Birthplace,  1881,, 
"  Whenever  the  14th  of  April  Comes," 
"Three  Figures  for  Posterity,"     . 
A  Comment  on  the  1882  Suppression, 
George  Chainey's  Chicago  Lecture, 
W.  W.'s  Late  Illness,  . 
W.  Sloane  Kennedy's  Criticism,  . 
"  An  Autobiography  After  its  Sort," 
American  Freethought  and  Freethinkers, 
Sonnet  to  \V.  W.  by  Robert  Buchanan, 


PAGBS 


199 

201 

202 

204 — 206 

207 

209 

211 

213 

215 
217 

219- 

221 

223 

225 

227 

229 

232 

23s 
23s 
236 


-221 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Frontispiece. — Portrait  of  Walt  Whitman,  from  Life,  in  1S64.  Photo. 
Intajjiio.     Drawn  by  Herbert  H.  (jilchrist,  England. 

Facin};  Page  13. — House  at  West  Hills  in  which  W.  W.  was  born. 
Drawn  by  Joseph  Pennell.     Eng,  by  Photo  Eng.  Co.,  N.  Y. 

Facing  Page  15. — Ancient  Burial  Ground  of  the  Van  Velsors  at 
Cold  Spring  Harbor,  L.  I.,  on  the  Homestead  Farm.  Drawn  by  Pen- 
nell.    Eng.  by  P.  E.  Co.,  N.  Y. 

Facing  Page  17. — Ancient  Burial  Ground  of  the  Whitmans  at  West 
Hills,  L.  I.,  on  the  Homestead  Farm.  Drawn  by  Pennell.  Eng.  by 
P.  E.  Co.,  N.  Y. 

Facing  Page  26. — Portrait  from  Life  of  Walter  Whitman,  the 
Poet's  Father. 

Facing  Page  46. — Portrait  from  Life  of  Louisa  (Van  Velsor)  Whit- 
man, the  Poet's  Mother. 

Facing  Page  48.— Portrait  from  Life  of  Walt  Whitman  in  1880. 
Photo  by  Edy  Bro.'s,  London,  Canada. 

Facing  Page  54. — W.  W.'s  Handwriting.    Fac-simile. 

»• .     « 

(6) 


INTRODUCTION. 

Now  just  entering  his  sixty-fifth  year,  Walt  Whitman  has  become  the 
object,  in  America  and  Kurope,  of  such  pronounced  attacks,  defences,  in- 
quiries, and  of  comments,  assumptions,  and  denials,  so  various  and  incon- 
sistent—with a  certainty  of  steadily  increasing  interest,  perhaps  of  still  more 
pronounced  attack  and  defence  in  the  future— that  a  field  may  well  be  pre- 
sumed to  exist  for  statements  about  him  from  observation  at  first  hand. 
Such  contemporaneous  statements,  executed  in  their  own  way,  form  the  purpose 
of  the  following  pages.  To  arrest,  at  the  time,  some  otherwise  evanescent 
facts  and  features  of  the  man— to  sketch  him  on  the  spot,  in  his  habit  as  he 
lived,  and  give  a  few  authentic  items  of  his  ancestry,  youth,  middle  life,  and 
actual  manners  and  talk,  is  the  primary  object  of  this  volume;  secondly, 
to  put.  forth  in  regard  to  Leaves  of  Grass  my  own  deliberate  constructions 
of  that  work.  I  make  no  pretence  that  they  are  other  than  from  a  friendly 
point  of  view.  "  As  it  seems  to  me,"  might  doubtless  have  served  as  heading 
for  all  I  have  written. 

To  balance,  however,  any  proclivity,  or  danger  of  proclivity,  in  that  direc- 
tion, I  have  freely  included  in  my  book  (Appendix,  Part  II.)  the  fullest  rep- 
resentation from  the  enemies  and  most  outspoken  fault-findings  and  denuncia- 
tions of  Lea~i>cs  of  Grass  and  t'leir  author.  I  know  that  the  poet  himself 
welcomes  such  searching  attacks  i  nd  trials.  He  has  told  me  that  he  considers 
tlieui  the  means  whereby  Nature  and  Fate  try  the  right  of  any  thing  or  ambi- 
tion, book  or  what-not,  to  exist.  "  If  my  light  can't  stand  such  gales,"  he 
once  said  to  me,  "  let  it  go  out — as  it  will  then  deserve  to  go  out." 

In  short,  and  while  I  have  no  final  authority  to  speak  for  Walt  Whitman 
(who  has  himself  more  opposed  than  favored  my  enterprise),  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  send  forth  the  following  pages,  not  only  as  the  bond  fide  results  of  my 
own  knowledge  of  the  poet  and  study  of  his  writings  for  many  years  past,  but 
as  direct  testimony  from  the  days  and  actualities  among  which  he  lives,  and 
certainly  representing  the  last  feeling  and  verdict  of  persons  (I  have  had  cor- 
respondence or  face-to-face  meetings  with  many  of  them),  who  have  been 
closest  and  longest  in  contact  with  him. 

William  D.  O'Connor's  •'  Good  Gray  Poet,"  of  i865-'6,  and,  after  eighteen 
years,  his  letter  now  written  (1883),  in  confirmation  and  rc-statcment  of  that 
pamphlet,  occupy  a  considerable  part  of  the  ensuing  volume  ;  but  they  are  both 
in  courteous  response  to  my  solicitations,  and  will  prove  invaluable  contributions 
to  the  future.     They  come  from  a  scholar  who  has  absorbed  to  its  very  depths 

(7) 


8  Tntyodiiction. 

the  literature  of  the  Elizaliclhan  ai;e,  as  illustrated  by  Shakep.pcare  and  Bacon 
— an  ardent  familiar  of  the  great  geniuses  of  all  times — and  a  personal 
knower  of  Walt  Whitman's  life  for  the  last  twenty-five  years.  The  judgments 
such  a  man,  after  such  opportunities,  has  to  announce,  deserve,  indeed,  to  be 
recorded. 

Walt  Whitman  said  not  long  since  to  a  friend  that  he  did  not  want  his  life 
written,  that  he  did  not  care  in  any  way  to  he  differentiated  from  the  common 
people,  of  whom  he  was  one.  "  Then,"  said  his  friend,  "  why  did  you  dif- 
ferentiate yourself  from  ordinary  men  by  writing  Leaven  of  Grass  .^"  Accord- 
ing to  the  poet  himself,  he  has  lived  a  common  life  ;  and  this  is  true,  not  in 
the  sense  that  it  has  been  like  other  lives,  but  that  other  lives  in  future  are  to 
be  like  it,  and  that  his  life  is  to  be  the  common  property  of  humanity.  For 
this  man,  who  has  absorbed  the  whole  human  race,  will,  in  the  future,  in  turn, 
be  absorbed  by  each  individual  member  of  the  race  who  aspires  to  attain  com- 
plete spiritual  growth. 

The  claim  made  throughout  the  present  work,  both  in  that  First  Part  of  it 
which  deals  with  the  man  Walt  Whitman,  and  in  the  Second,  which  deals 
with  the  book  Leaves  of  Grass,  is,  that  the  leading  fact  in  both,  the  one  as 
much  as  the  other,  is  moral  elevation  ;  that  this  is  their  basic  meaning  and 
value  to  us.  The  true  introduction,  therefore,  to  this  volume,  is  the  author's 
previous  work,  "  Man's  Moral  Nature."*  In  that  book  he  has  discussed  the 
moral  nature  in  the  abstract,  pointed  out  its  physical  basis,  and  shown  its  his- 
toric development;  while  the  sole  object  of  the  i)resent  work  is  to  depict  an 
individual  moral  nature,  perhaps  the  liighest  iliat  has  yet  appeared. 

And  now,  before  entering  on  the  various  subjects  attempted  and  more  fully 
detailed  in  my  volume,  it  will  essentially  serve  the  reader  to  run  his  or  her 
eyes  over  an  authentic  and  brief 

Chronological  forecast  ofN^AW  Whitman's  life,  and  the  successive 
publications  ^Leaves  of  Grass. 

1819.  Born  at  West  Hills — (see  Specimen  Days). 

1820,  '21,  '22,  and  early  half  of  '23.  At  West  Hills. 
i823-'24.  In  Brooklyn,  in  Front  street. 

l825-'3o.  In    Cranberry,    Johnson,  Tillary,  and    Henry  streets.      Went   to 

public  schools. 
iS3i-'32.  Tended  in  a  lawyer's  office;  then,  a  doctor's. 
1 833-' 34.  In  printing  offices,  learning  the  trade. 

i836-'37.  Teaching  country  schools  on  Long  Island.  "  Boarded  round." 
l840-'45.  In  New  York  city,  printing,  etc.     Summers  in  the  country.     Some 

farm-work, 

*  "Man's  Moral  Nature,  an  Essay."   G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons:  N.Y.,  1879. 


Introduction.  9 

l846-'47.  In  Brooklyn,  editing  daily  paper,  the  "  Eagle." 

iS48-'49.  In  New  Orleans,  on  editorial  staff  of  daily  paper,  the  "  Crescent." 

"  i848-'4i^.  About  thif  time  went  otT  on  a  leisurely  journey  and  working  expedition  (my 
brother  Jeff  with  me)  through  all  the  Middle  States,  and  down  the  Ohio  and  Missirsippi 
Rivers.  Lived  a  while  in  New  Orleans,  and  worked  there.  After  a  time,  plodded  back 
northward,  up  the  Mississippi,  the  Missouri,  etc.,  and  around  to,  and  by  way  of,  the  great 
lakes,  Michigan.  Huron,  and  Erie,  to  Niagara  Falls  and  Lowei  Canad.a— fin.ally  returning 
through  Central  New  York,  and  down  the  Yi\id.^o'Ci."— Personal  Notcs^  W.  \y. 

l.Sso.  Publishing  "  The  Freeman"  newspaper  in  Brooklyn. 

185 1,  '52,  '53,  '54.  Carpentering — building   houses  in   Brooklyn,  and  selling 

tlicm. 
1855.  First  issue  of  Leaves  of  Grass.     Small  quarto,  94  pages.     Eight  or 

nine  hundred  eopies  printed.     No  sale. 
1S56.  Second  issue  of  Leaves  of  Grass.     Small  iC)mo.,2^\  p'tg^^ — T,2  poems — 

published  by  Foiuler  ^  IVells,  308  Broadway,  New    York.     Little  or  no 

sale. 
1S60.   Third  issue  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  456  pages,  l2mo,,  published  by  Thayer 

d-^  Eld  ridge,  Il6  Washington  Street,  Boston. 
1862.  W.  W.  leaves  Brooklyn  and  New  York   permanently.     Goes  down  to 

the  field  of  war.     Winters  partly  in  Army  of  the  Potomac,  camped  along 

the  Rappahannock,  Virginia.     Begins  his  ministrations  to  the  wounded. 
iS63-'64.  In  the  field,  and  among  the  army  hospitals — (see  Specimen  Days). 

1565.  At  Washington  City,  as  government  clerk. 

1566.  Prints  "Drum  Taps"  and  "Sequel  to  Drum  Taps,"  poems  written 
during  the  war,  "  President  Lincoln's  Funeral  Hymn,"  and  other  pieces. 
96  pages,  i2mo.     Washington.     No  publisher's  name. 

1867.  Fourth  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  ^^S  pages,  i2mo.  The  poems  now 
begin  the  order  and  classification  eventually  settled  upon.  New  York.  No 
publisher's  name. 

1868,  '69,  '70.  Employed  in  Attorney-General's  Department,  Washington. 
1871.  Delivers  "  After  all,  not  to  Create  only,"  ("  Song  of  the  Exposition  "), 

at  the  opening  of  the  American  Institute,  New  York. 

1571.  L'ifth  issue  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  '^%\  pages,  and  Passage  to  India,  120 
pages,  both  in  one  volume,  i2mo.      Washington,  D.  C.     Includes  Drum 

Taps,  Marches  noio  the  War  is  over,  etc.     A  handsome  edition. 

1572.  Delivers  "  As  a  Strong  Bird  on  Pinions  Free,"  at  the  commencement, 

Dartmouth  College,  Planover,  N.  II.  (now,  in  1882-83  edition,  entitled 

"  Thou  Mother  with  thy  Equal  Brood.") 

"  1872.  Took  a  two  months'  trip  through  the  New  England  States,  up  the  Connecticut  val- 
ley, Vermont,  the  Adirondacks  region— and  to  Burlington,  to  see  my  dear  sister  Hannah 
once  more.  Returning,  had  a  pleasrnt  day-trip  down  Lake  Champlain— and,  the  next 
day,  down  the  Hudson." — Notes. 

1873.  Opening  of  this  year,  W.  W.  prostrated  by  paralysis,  at  Washington. 
Loses  his  mother  by  death. 


lO  Introduction. 

l874-'75.  Living  in  Camden,  New  Jersey,  disaliled  and  ill. 

1876.  Sixth  or  Centennial  issue  of  Leaves  of  Grass  {printed  from  the  plates 

of  the  fifth,  x'^'i'jx,  edition).     Also  another  volume,  Two  Rivulets,  composed 

of  prose  and  poeiiis  alternately. 
l877-'78.  Health  and  .strength  now  moderately  improvin;?. 

1879.  Journeys  west  to  Missouri,  Kansas,  Colorado,  etc.  (see  Specimen  Days). 

1880.  Journeys  to  Canada,  and  summers  there. 

18S1.  Seventh  issue  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  jSj  pages,  i2mo.  James  R.  Oss;ood 
6^  Co.,  Boston.  Six  months  after  issue,  J.  R.  Osgood  ^  Co.  are  threatened 
7iiith  prosecution  by  Afassachusetts  District  Attorney  Stevens,  and  abandon 
the  publication. 

l882-'83.  Eighth  and  final  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  frovi  same  plates  as 

1 88 1,  Boston,  edition,  zoith  last  touches  and  corrections  of  the  author,  con- 

tainini(  all  the  poems  from  first  to  last — tioo  hundred  and  ninety-three — 

printed  under  IV.   IV.' s  direct  supervision.     Published  by  David  McKay, 

23  South  Ninth  Street,  Philadelphia  {formerly  Rees  IVelsh  6^  Co.). 

l882-'S3.  Prose  loritings,  autobiography,  etc.,  entitled  Specimen  Days  and 
Collect.  The  author  s  parentage,  early  days  on  Long  Island,  and  young 
manhood  in  Ncui  York  city.  Three  years^  experience  in  the  Secession 
War,  especially  the  army  hospitals.  Convalescent  notes  afterward.  Also, 
some  literary  criticisms,  and  Jaunts  ivest  and  north.  The  latter  part.  Col- 
lect, includes  Democratic  Vistas,  the  successive  Prefaces  of  Leaves  of 
Grass,  with  many  notes,  and  prose  compositions  of  various  years.  374 
pages,  i2mo.  Published  by  David  McKay,  23  South  Ninth  Street,  Phila- 
delphia. 


PART  I. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

THE  POET  IN  i^Zo— PERSONNEL, 

HIS  CONVERSATION. 

APPENDIX — The  Good  Gray  Poet,  reprinted  from  the 
Pamphlet  of  1866,  with  an  Introductory  Letter  (1883), 
written  for  this  Volume  by  William  D.  O'Connor. 

(») 


If  Taine,  the  French  critic,  had  done  no  other  good,  it  would  be  enough 
that  he  has  brought  to  the  fore  the  first,  last,  and  all-illuminating  point,  with 
respect  to  any  grand  production  ot  literature,  that  the  only  way  to  finally  un- 
derstand it  is  to  minutely  study  the  personality  of  the  one  who  shaped  it — his 
origin,  times,  surroundings,  and  his  actual  fortunes,  life,  and  ways.  All  this 
supplies  not  only  the  glass  through  which  to  look,  but  it  is  the  atmosphere, 
the  very  light  itself.  Who  can  profoundly  get  at  IJyron  or  Burns  without  such 
help?  Would  I  apply  the  rule  to  Shakespeare?  Yes,  unhesitatingly;  the 
plays  of  the  great  poet  are  not  only  the  concentration  of  all  that  lambently 
played  in  the  best  fancies  of  those  times — not  only  the  gathering  sunset  of  the 
stirring  days  of  feudalism,  but  the  particular  life  that  the  poet  led,  the  kind  of 
man  he  was,  and  what  his  individual  experience  absorbed,  I  don't  wonder 
the  theory  is  broached  that  other  brains  and  fingers  (Bacon's,  Raleigh's,  and 
more)  had  to  do  with  the  Shakespearian  work — planned  main  parts  of  it,  and 
built  it.  The  singular  absence  of  information  about  the  person  Shakespeare 
leaves  unsolved  many  a  riddle,  and  prevents  the  last  and  dearest  descriptive 
touches  and  dicta  of  criticism. 

Walt  Whitman  in  "  The  Critic,"  Dec.  3d,  1881. 

(12) 


CHAPTER  I. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


Walt  Whitman  was  born  at  West  Hills,  Huntington  Township, 
Suffolk  County,  Long  Island,  New  York  State,  May  31,  1819 — 
the  second  of  a  family  of  nine  children,  seven  boys  and  two 
girls.*  The  earliest  lineal  ancestor  I  am  at  present  able  to  trace 
was  Abijah  W.,  born  in  England  about  1560.  The  Rev.  Zecha- 
riah  W.,  his  son,  born  1595,  came  from  England  in  the  ship 
"True-Love"  in  1635,  and  lived  at  Milford,  Connecticut,  whence 
his  son  Joseph  W.  some  time  before  1660  passed  over  to  Hunt- 
ington and  settled  there.  From  him  (Savage's  "  Genealogical 
Dictionary,"  vol.  4,  p.  524)  the  Long  Island  Whitmans  de- 
scended. Although  Joseph  W.  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
very  well  off  in  1660,  there  is  evidence  in  the  town  records  that 
he  afterwards  became  so.  It  is  probable  that  he  or  one  of  his 
sons  purchased  the  farm  at  West  Hills  on  which  the  poet's  great 
grandfather,  grandfather,  and  father  lived. 

The  Whitmans  were,  and  are  still,  a  solid,  tall,  strong-framed, 
long-lived  race  of  men,  moderate  of  speech,  friendly,  fond  of 
their  land  and  of  horses  and  cattle,  sluggish  in  their  passions,  but 


•  Here  is  a  list  of  the  immediate  family: 

The  Parents, 

Walter  Whitman, 
Ix)uisa  Van  Velsor, 

Sons  and  Daughters. 
Jesse  Whitman,    . 


Wall  Whitman,     . 
Mary  Elizabeth,  . 
Hannah  Louisa,   . 
An  Intimt, 
Andrew  Jackson, 
George  Washington, 
Thomas  Jefferson, 
Edward,        . 


Born. 

July  14,  1789. 
Sept.  22,  1795. 


March  2,  1818. 
May  31,  1819. 
Feb.  3,  1821. 
Nov.  28,  1823. 
March  2,  1825. 
April  7,  1827. 
Nov.  2H,  1829. 
July  i3,  1833. 
Aug.  9,  1835. 


Died. 

July  II,  1855. 
May  23,  1873. 


March  21,  1870. 


Sept.  14,  1835. 
December,  1863. 


(13) 


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On  the  Mother's  side.  i  S 

fearful  when  once  started.  During  the  American  Revolution  of 
i776-'83,  they  were  staunch  patriots  or  "  rebels,"  and  several  of 
tlie  name  were  soldiers  under  Washington,  two  of  them  officers 
of  some  rank. 

The  poet's  father,  Walter  W.,  after  a  childliood  passed  at  West 
Hills  on  hin  par'ints'  farm,  when  about  15  was  put  apprentice  to 
the  carpenter's  trade  in  New  York  City,  and  lived  and  worked 
tliere  as  youth  and  young  man.  He  married  in  1816,  His  busi- 
ness afterwards  for  many  years  extended  into  various  parts  of 
Long  Island.  He  was  a  large,  quiet,  serious  man,  very  kind  to 
children  and  animals,  and  a  good  citizen,  neighbor  and  parent. 
In  his  trade  he  was  noted  as  a  superior  framer.  Not  a  few  of  his 
barn  and  house  frames,  with  their  seasoned  timbers  and  careful 
braces  and  joists,  are  still  standing  in  Suffolk  and  Queen's  coun- 
ties and  in  Brooklyn,  strong  and  [)lumb  as  ever. 

On  his  motner's  side  the  poet  is  descended  from  the  Van  Vel- 
sors,  a  family  of  farmers  settled  also  on  their  own  land  near 
Cold  Spring  Harbor,  three  or  four  miles  from  West  Hills. 
They  seem  to  have  been  a  warm-hearted  and  sympathetic  race. 
An  aged  man  who  had  known  them  well,  said  to  me  one  day  at 
Huntington,  "  Old  Major  Van  Velsor  was  the  best  of  men  ;  there 
are  no  better  men  than  he  was — and  his  wife  was  just  as  good  a 
woman  as  he  was  a  man."  Walt  Whitii  an's  mother,  Louisa  Van 
Velsor,  was  their  daughter.  The  family  was  of  Holland  Dutch 
descent.  The  men  and  boys  were  fond  of  horses,  the  raising  of 
which  from  blooded  stock  was  a  large  part  of  their  occupation, 
and  Louisa,  when  young,  was  herself  a  daring  and  spirited  rider. 
As  a  woman  and  mother  she  was  of  marked  spiritual  and  intuitive 
nature,  remarkably  healthy  and  strong,  had  a  kind,  generous 
heart,  go^^d  sense,  and  a  cheerful  and  even  temper.  Walt  Whit- 
man himself  makes  much  of  the  feminine  side  of  his  ancestry. 
Both  his  grandmothers  (with  each  of  whom  he  spent  a  part  of 
every  year  until  he  was  quite  a  big  lad),  appear  to  have  been 
specially  noble  and  endearing  characters.  At  the  death  of  his 
own  mother  he  spoke  of  her,  and  his  sister-in-law  Martha,  as 
"  the  best  and  sweetest  women  I  ever  saw,  or  ever  expect  to  see." 

Not  a  little  of  the  significance  of  the  poet's  Whitman  and 


x6 


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His  Ilollandic  Elements.  17 

Van  Velsor  ancestry  may  be  found  in  the  ancient,  grim,  and 
crowded  cemeteries  of  the  two  families  and  their  branches,  run- 
ning bacli  for  many  generations.  To  any  "  OUl  Mortality" 
these  cemeteries — one  at  West  Hills,  the  other  about  a  mile  from 
Cold  Spring  Harbor — would  fully  repa*  the  trouble  to  visit. 
Looking  on  them  as  I  did  a  couple  of  summers  since,  I  thought 
them  the  most  solemn,  natural,  impressive  burial-places  I  had 
ever  seen. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  both  Walt  Whitman's  personality  and 
writings  are  to  be  credited  very  largely  to  their  Holland  origin 
through  his  mother's  side.  A  faithful  and  subtle  investigation 
(and  a  very  curious  one  it  would  be)  might  trace  far  back  many 
of  the  elements  of  Leaves  of  Gmss,^  long  before  their  author 
was  born.  From  his  mother  also  he  derived  his  extraordinary 
affective  nature,  spirituality  and  human  sympathy.  From  his 
father  chiefly  must  have  come  his  passion  for  freedom,  and  the 
firmness  of  character  which  has  enabled  him  to  persevere  for  a 
lifetime  in  what  he  has  called  "carrying  out  his  own  ideal."  I 
have  heard  him  say,  more  than  once,  that  all  the  members  of  his 
father's  family  were  noted  for  their  resolution  (which  he  called 
obstinacy),  and  that  nothing  ever  could  or  did  turn  any  of  them 


*  Washington  Irving  taught  the  people  of  New  York  to  laugh  at  their  Dutch  ancestors. 
John  Luthrop  Motley  has  made  them  proud  of  them  as  the  connecting  link  between  them- 
selves and  the  heroic  founders  of  the  Dutch  Republic.  It  is  full  time  that  the  Now  Nether- 
lands Colonists  should  be  rescued  from  the  limbo  of  absurdity  into  which  Irving's  wit  cast 
them.  They  deserve  rehabilitation  and  a  serious  history.  The  merits  of  their  descend:  its 
speak  for  them  The  old  Knickerbocker  families  are  still — and  have  been  ever  since  the  day 
when  stoMt  old  Sir  Robert  Holir  .'s  seized  the  New  Netherlands  for  England— among  the  first 
and  best  people  in  New  York.  If  all  the  truth  were  known,  we  should  be  as  proid  of  the 
ship  "  Goot  Vrow"  and  the  landing  at  Communipaw,  .is  New  Englanders  are  of  tl  e  "  May 
Flower"  and  Plymouth  Rock.  In  Motley's  pages  what  a  noble  people  lives  aga.n!  No 
grander  fight  than  theirs  for  freedom  was  ever  fought.  In  the  cases  of  Greece  against  Persia, 
Switzerland  against  Austria  and  Burgundy,  the  American  Colonies  against  England,  the  first 
French  Republic  against  Monarchial  Europe,  certain  special  advantages  were  on  the  weaker 
though  winnii.g  sides,  and  brilliant  victories  in  the  field  decided  the  struggle.  But  the  poor 
and  peaceable  little  Dutch  Provinces  in  their  stand  .igainst  bitter  religious  persecution,  plus 
intolerable  tyranny,  from  the  wealthiest  and  most  warlike  King<lom  in  Europe,  were  beaten 
repeatedly;  yet  they  fought  on,  and  when  at  last,  wearied  with  slaughter,  Spain  gave  over, 
and  let  them  go  free,  it  was  not  because  she  was  defeated  or  lacked  either  men  or  means  to 
can  y  on  the  contest,  but  because  she  s,iw  that  complete  conquest  of  the  Netherlands  would 
mean  the  last  Hollander  dead  in  the  last  ditch,  and  the  country  the  Dutch  had  recl.iimed 
from  the  ocean  once  more  sunk  beneath  its  waves.  Who  can  read  thai  history  and  not  think 
of  it  with  pride,  if  the  blood  of  those  heroic  people  liows  in  his  veins  ? — New  York  Tribune. 


1 8  II  a//  Whitman. 

from  a  course  they  had  once  positively  decided  upon.  From 
,'ather  and  mother  alike,  he  derived  his  magnificent  physique,  and 
(until  he  lost  it  in  1873  through  special  causes  to  be  spoken  of 
later)  his  almost  unexampled  health  and  fulness  of  bodily  life. 
Walt  Whitman*  could  say  with  perhaps  a  better  right  than  almost 
any  man  for  such  a  boast,  that  he  was 

Well-begotten,  and  rais'd  by  a  perfect  mother. 

The  other  main  element  which  has  to  be  taken  into  account 
in  the  formation  of  the  character  of  the  poet,  is  that  he  was 
brought  up  on  Long  Island,  or  as  he  often  calls  it,  giving  the  old 
Indian  name,  Paumanok,  a  peculiar  region,  over  a  hundred  miles 
long,  "shaped  like  a  fish,  plenty  of  sea-shore,  the  horizon  bound- 
less, the  air  fresh  and  healthy,  the  numerous  bays  and  creeks 
swarming  with  aquatic  birds,  the  south-side  meadows  covered  with 
salt  hay,  the  soil  generally  tough,  but  affording  numberless  springs 
of  the  sweetest  water  in  the  world."  In  certain  parts  the  scenery, 
especially  about  West  Hills  and  Huntington,  and  along  the  north 
side,  is  very  picturesque.  Here  and  there  inland  or  along  the 
coast  are  magnificent  views,  among  them  a  grand  one  from  the 
summit  of  "  Jayne's  Hill,"  aliout  a  mile  from  the  old  Whitman 
farm.  On  the  broad  top  of  this  eminence  the  boy  Walt  Whit- 
man must  have  lingered  many  an  hour  looking  far  over  the  slopes, 
the  crests  covered  with  trees,  and  the  valleys  between  dotted  with 
farm-houses — to  the  south  far  off  the  just  visible  waters  of  the 
Atlantic,  to  the  north  glimpses  of  Long  Island  Sound.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  there  are  few  regions  on  the  face  of  the  earth  better  fitted 
for  the  concrete  background  of  such  a  book  as  Leaves  of  Grass. 
After  seeing  and  exploring  it,  the  mind  appreciates  what  was  said 
by  William  O'Connor,  after  spending  some  weeks  on  Long  Island 
and  its  shores,  "that  no  one  can  ever  really  get  at  Whitman's 
poems,  and  their  finest  lights  and  shades,  until  he  has  visited  and 
familiarized  himself  with  the  freshness,  scope,  wildness  and  sea- 
beauty  of  this  rugged  Island." 

While  Walt  Whitman  was  still  a  child  his  parents  moved  to 


*  At  liomo.  through  infancy  and  bi)y!\0''u,  he  was  called  "  Walt,"  to  distinguish  him  from 
his  fath.cr  "  Walter,"  and  the  short  name  had  always  been  used  for  him  by  his  relatives  and 
friends. 


Brooklyn  and  Nnv   York  Training.  I9 

Brooklyn.  Here  he  grew  up,  but  as  lad  and  young  man  made 
frequent  and  long  visits  to  his  birth-place,  and  all  through  Queen's 
and  Suffolk  counties.  He  attended  the  common  schools  of 
Brooklyn  until  he  was  thirteen  years  of  age,  and  then  he  went 
into  a  printing  office  and  learned  to  set  type.  While  still  a 
youth  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  he  taught  school  in  the  country, 
and  even  then  was  writiiig  for  the  newspapers  and  magazines. 
When  he  was  about  nineteen  or  twenty  years  of  age  (in  1839  and 
1840)  I  find  him  publishing  and  editing  the  "Long  Islander,"  a 
weekly  newspaper  at  Huntington.  Then  he  came  to  New  York 
city  to  live. 

For  the  next  twelve  years  he  seems  to  have  been  employed 
chiefly  in  printing  offices  as  compositor,  and  quite  often  as  news- 
paper and  magazine  writer.  It  was  during  those  twelve  and  a  few 
immediately  following  years — say  from  the  age  of  19  to  34  or  '5 — 
that  he  acquired  his  especial  education  ;  and  only  those  who  know 
Leaves  of  Grass  can  understand  the  full  meaning  of  that  word  in 
his  case.  It  was  perhaps  the  most  comprehensive  equipment  ever 
attained  by  a  human  being,  though  many  things  that  the  schools 
prescribe  were  left  out.  Ii  consisted  in  absorbing  into  himself 
the  whole  city  and  country  about  him,  New  York  and  Brooklyn, 
and  their  adjacencies ;  not  only  their  outside  shows,  but  far  more 
their  interior  heart  and  meaning.  In  the  first  place  he  learned 
life— men,  women,  and  children,  he  went  on  equal  terms  with 
every  one,  he  liked  them  and  tb.ey  him,  and  he  knew  them  far  better 
than  they  knew  themselves.  Then  he  became  thoroughly  con- 
versant with  the  shops,  houses,  sidewalks,  ferries,  factories,  tav- 
erns, gatherings,  political  meetings,  carousings,  etc.  He  was  first 
the  absorber  of  the  sunlight,  the  free  air  and  the  open  streets, 
and  then  of  interiors.  He  knew  the  hospitals,  poorhouses, 
prisons,  and  their  inmates.  He  passed  freely  in  and  about 
those  parts  of  the  city  which  are  inhabited  by  the  worst  char- 
acters; he  knew  all  their  people,  and  many  of  them  knew 
limi ;  he  learned  to  tolerate  their  squalor,  vice,  and  ignorance; 
lie  saw  the  good  (often  much  more  than  the  self-righteous 
think)  and  the  bad  that  was  in  them,  and  what  there  was 
to  excuse  and  justify  their  lives.     It  is  said  that  these  people, 


20  JFrt//  WJtitmnu. 

even  the  worst  of  them,  while  entire  strangers  to  Walt  Whitman, 
quite  invariably  received  him  without  discourtesy  and  treated  him 
well.  Perhaps  only  those  who  have  known  the  man  personally, 
and  have  felt  the  peculiar  magnetism  of  his  presence,  can  fully 
understand  this.  Many  of  the  worst  of  those  characters  became 
singularly  attached  to  him.  He  knew  and  was  sociable  with  the 
man  that  sold  peanuts  at  the  corner,  and  the  okl  woman  that  dis- 
pensed coffee  in  the  market.  He  did  not  patronize  them,  they 
were  to  him  as  good  as  the  rest,  as  good  as  he,  only  temporarily 
dimmed  and  obscured. 

True,  he  knew,  and  intimately  knew,  the  better  off  and  edu- 
cated people  as  well  as  the  poorest  and  most  ignorant.  Merchants, 
lawyers,  doctors,  scholars  and  writers,  were  among  his  friends. 
But  the  people  he  knew  best  and  liked  most,  and  who  knew  him 
best  and  liked  him  most,  were  neither  the  rich  and  conventional, 
nor  the  worst  and  poorest,  but  the  decent-born  middle-life  farm- 
ers, mechanics,  carpenters,  pilots,  drivers,  masons,  printers,  deck- 
hands, teamsters,  drovers,  and  the  like.  These  and  their  wives 
and  children,  their  old  fathers  and  mothers,  he  knew  as  no  one  I 
think  ever  knew  them  before,  and  between  him  and  them  (espe- 
cially the  old  folks,  the  mothers  and  fiithers)  in  numberless  in- 
stances existed  the  warmesi  attachments. 

He  made  himself  familiar  with  all  kinds  of  employments,  not 
by  reading  trade  reports  and  statistics,  but  by  watching  and  stop- 
l)ing  hours  with  the  workmen  (often  his  intimate  friends)  at  their 
work.  He  visited  the  foundries,  shops,  rolling  mills,  slaughter- 
houses, woollen  and  cotton  factories,  shipyards,  wharves,  and  the 
big  carriage  and  cabinet  shops — went  to  clam-bakes,  races,  auc- 
tions, weddings,  sailing  and  bathing  parties,  christenings,  and  all 
kinds  of  merry-makings.  (In  their  amplitude,  richness,  unflag- 
gmg  movement  and  gay  color.  Leaves  of  Grass,  it  may  be  said, 
are  but  the  putting  in  poetic  statements  of  the  Manhattan  Island 
and  Brooklyn  of  those  years,  and  of  to-day.) 

Amid  the  rest  of  his  training  and  exercise  he  was  a  frequent 
si)eaker  at  debating  societies.  On  Sundays  he  occasionally  went 
to  the  churches  of  the  various  sects  of  Christians,  and  sometimes 
the  synagogues  of  the  Jews,  and  if  there  had  been  Buddhist  tern- 


A  Ila^'py  and  Free  Life.  21 

pics,  Mohammedan  Mosques,  and  Confucian  Joss-houses  acces- 
sible, he  \voul<l  undoubtedly  have  visited  those  with  the  same  inter- 
est and  sympathy.  Then  he  went  occasionally  to  the  libraries  and 
nuiseumsof  all  sorts.  l'\)r  instance,  there  was  at  this  time  in  New 
York  a  very  fine  and  full  collection  of  Egyptian  antitjuities,  and 
for  over  two  years  off  and  on  he  spent  many  an  hour  there  ;  he 
became  friends  with  the  proprietor,  Dr.  Abbott,  a  learned  Egypt- 
ologist, and  gleaned  largely  from  his  personal  narrations.  Reading 
did  not  go  for  so  very  much  in  Walt  Whitman's  education — he 
found  he  could  get  more  from  the  things  themselves  than  from  pic- 
tures or  descriptions  of  them  drawn  by  others  ;  still  his  aim  was  to 
absorb  humanity  and  modern  life,  and  he  neglected  no  means, 
books  included,  by  which  this  aim  could  be  furthered.  A  favorite 
mode  of  study  with  him  was,  after  an  early  breakfast,  to  reach  by 
stage  or  sometimes  on  foot,  several  miles  from  the  city,  some  soli- 
tary spot  by  the  sea-shore,  generally  Coney  Island  (a  very  differ- 
ent place  then  from  what  it  is  now),  taking  with  him  a  knapsack 
containing  a  bite  of  plain  food,  a  towel  and  a  book.  There  he 
would  spend  the  day  in  solitude  with  Nature,  walking,  thinking, 
observing  the  sea  and  sky,  bathing,  reading,  or  perhaps  reciting 
aloud  Homer  and  Shakespeare  as  he  strode  along  the  beach. 
These  years  he  used  to  watch  the  English  quarterlies  antl  Black- 
wood, and  when  he  found  an  article  that  suited  him  he  would  buy 
the  number,  perhaps  second-hand,  for  a  few  cents,  tear  it  out,  and 
take  it  with  him  on  his  next  sea-beach  excursion  to  digest.  Walt 
AVhitman's  life  at  this  time  was  perhaps  the  happiest  that  has  ever 
been  lived  \  he  speaks  of  himself  as 

Wandering,  amazed  at  my  ovn  lightness  and  glee. 

Whatever  he  did  or  saw  seemed  to  give  him  pleasure.  At  one 
period  of  his  life  a  special  enjoyment  in  New  York  was  riding  up 
and  down  Broadway  on  an  omnibus,  sitting  in  front,  watch- 
ing the  crowds  and  vehicles,  and  the  limitless  life  of  the  swarm- 
ing streets.  Or  crossing  the  East  River,  half  the  day  or  half  the 
night  in  the  pilot-houses  of  Brooklyn  ferry-boats,  watching  the 
multitudes  coming  and  going,  observing  the  sights  on  the  waters, 
feeling  the  quiver  of  the  boat,  the  strong  beat  of  the  paddles,  and 


22  IVaU  Whiiman. 

the  rush  through  the  yielding  water.  Other  times  he  would  go 
out  to  sea  with  his  friends  of  the  pilot-boats,  and  all  day  and  all 
night  enjoy  the  salt  air,  the  motion  of  the  waves,  the  speed 
of  the  boat,  the  isolation,  the  deep  feeling  of  communion  with 
free  Nature  and  the  groat  brine.  The  simplest  and  most  common- 
place jjursuits  (and  yet  perha^js  something  nishin^i^)  suited  him 
best;  the  main  thing  with  him  was  that  he  w:is  perfectly  sound 
and  well,  and  all  life's  delights  were  matters  of  course. 

At  one  time,  (I  think  along  in  his  twenty-third  year  or  there- 
abouts,) he  became  quite  a  speaker  at  the  Democratic  mass-meet- 
ings. He  spoke  in  N'iw  York  City  and  down  at  country  gather- 
ings on  Long  Island.  He  was  quite  popular  at  Jamaica,  in 
Queen's  County.  (He  had  been  a  student  at  the  Academy  there 
when  a  big  lad.)  Though  he  took  (in  Ikooklyn  and  New  York, 
1840 -'55,)  no  strenuous  personal  part  in  "politics" — in  the 
City,  State  and  National  elections — he  watched  their  progress 
carefully,  sometimes  aided  in  the  nomination  of  candidates,  per- 
haps voted  at  the  municipal  elections,  and  always  at  the  Con- 
gressional and  Presidential  ones. 

Though  all  this  practical,  tumultuous,  varied  and  generally 
outdoor  life  was  enjoyment  to  Walt  Whitman,  there  had  come  to 
his  young  maturity  one  supreme  enjoyment,  the  Italian  opera. 
And  the  climax  of  the  opera  to  him  was  the  singing  of  the  famous 
contralto  ^'Mboni.  It  was  during  the  time  of  which  I  am  now 
speaking  that  she  came  to  New  York,  and  he  did  not  miss  hear- 
ing her  one  single  night.  I  have  heard  him  say  that  the  influence 
of  Alboni's  singing  upon  him  was  a  most  important  factor  in  his 
poetic  growth.     He  speaks  of  her  in  Leaves  of  Grass,  as 

The  lustrous  orb,  Venus  contralto,  the  bloominj  mother, 
Sister  of  loftiest  gods. 

Throughout  all  his  life  indeed  the  opera  and  the  best  music 
has  been  one  of  Ms  chief  delights.  He  heard  all  the  good  bands, 
orchestras,  or  soloists  who  came  to  New  York  from  1840  to  1S60, 
and  I  know  that  many  passages  of  his  poetry  were  suggested  or 
inspired  by  one  or  other  of  them,  and  often  written  down  at  the 
moment,  or  immediately  afterwards. 


I  ^^j-4<^— Jaunt  to  LoiiLuVui,  23 

To  use  the  simple  and  hearty  old  scripture  phrase,  "  the  love  of 
women"  has,  of  course,  been,  and  is  in  a  legitimate  sense,  one 
of  the  man's  elementary  passions.  1  can  only  touch  upon  this 
sul)ject,  which  is  sufficiently  set  forth  in  the  latter  lines  of  the 
following  extract  from  John  Burroughs' s  "  Notes  "  : 

For  a  few  years  he  now  seems  to  be  a  member  of  that  light  battalion  of 
writers  for  the  press  who,  with  facile  pen,  compose  tale,  report,  editorial,  or 
what-not,  for  pleasure  and  a  living;  a  peculiar  class,  always  to  be  found  in 
any  large  city.  Once  in  a  while  he  appears  at  the  political  mass  meetings 
as  a  speaker.  lie  is  on  the  Democratic  side,  at  the  time  going  for  V^an  Burun 
for  President,  and,  in  due  course,  for  Polk.  He  speaks  in  New  York,  and 
down  on  Long  Island,  where  he  is  made  much  of.  Through  this  period 
(iS40-'55),  without  entering  into  particulars,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  he 
sounded  all  experiences  of  life,  with  all  their  passions,  pleasures  and  aban- 
donments. He  was  young,  in  perfect  bodily  condition,  and  had  the  city  of 
New  York  and  its  ample  opportunities  around  him.  I  trace  this  period  in 
some  of  the  poems  of  "  Children  of  Adam,"  and  occasionally  in  other  parts 
of  his  book,  including  "  Calamus. " 

In  1847  and  '48  he  was  occupied  in  Brooklyn  as  editor  of  the 
"  Daily  Eagle  "  newspaper.  (It  is  said  to  have  been  his  strenuous 
and  persistent  advocacy  that  secured  to  the  city  the  old  Fort 
Greene  battle-ground,  now  known  as  Washington  Park.)  About 
1849,  being  now  thirty  years  of  age,  having  lived  so  far  entirely 
on  Long  Island  and  Brooklyn  and  in  New  York,  and  besides  the 
invariable  though  moderate  labor  necessary  to  pay  his  way,  occu- 
pied himself  enjoying  and  absorbing  their  shows,  life  and  facili- 
ties, he  started  on  a  long  tour  through  the  Middle,  Southern 
and  Western  States.  He  passed  slowly  through  Pennsylvania  and 
Virginia,  crossed  the  Alleghany  Mountains,  took  a  steamboat  at 
Wheeling,  descended  by  leisurely  stages  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi 
Rivers  to  New  Orleans,  and  lived  there  some  time,  employed  edi- 
torially on  a  newspaper,  the  "Crescent."  Outside  of  work 
hours  he  occupied  himself  observing  Southern  life,  people,  the 
river,  with  its  miles  of  levee  and  its  multitudinous  and  peculiar 
scenes.  He  seems  to  have  pulsed  much  the  same  sort  of  a 
time  as  in  New  York — that  is,  a  life  of  the  open  streets  and  public 
places,  hotels,  theatres,  evening  drives  and  social  meetings — (and 
I  know  no  city  where  such  a  life  may  be  more  enjoyable  than 


24  IVa//   IVhiii/ian. 

New  Orleans).  He  liked  to  go  to  the  great  French  market  for 
an  early  morning  walk,  for  the  sake  of  the  peculiar  stir  and  siiows 
of  the  place — often  took  liis  breakfast  at  a  coffee-stand  there  kept 
by  a  large,  handsome  niidatto  woman.  All  who  have  lived  in  the 
Southern  States,  and  love  them  (and  who  that  has  ever  lived  there 
can  think  of  them  without  affection  and  longing?)  will  feel  in  a 
hundred  places,  in  reading  Leaves  of  Grass,  that  Walt  Whitman 
has  caught  and  transferred  to  his  pages  the  true  atmosphere  of  that 
delicious  and  sunny  region. 

After  staying  about  a  year  in  New  Orleans,  he  visited  various 
other  parts  of  the  South,  and  then  turned  North  again.  Ascend- 
ing the  Mississippi  to  St.  Louis,  he  stayed  there  for  a  time,  then 
journeyed  to  Chicago,  to  Milwaukee,  and  so  up  to  the  Straits  of 
Mackinaw.  From  there,  turning  east  and  south,  after  lingering 
awhile  at  Detroit,  he  slowly  descended  the  great  lakes  to  Niagara, 
and,  with  many  lags  and  stoppages,  crossed  New  York  State  and 
returned  to  Brooklyn. 

In  1 85 1  and  '52  he  published  and  edited  a  newspaper  of  his 
own,  the  *'  Freeman,"  in  Brooklyn.  He  afterward  built  and  sold 
moderate-sized  houses.  At  this  last  business  he  made  money, 
and  if  he  had  continued  would  probably  have  become  rich.  (He 
seems  to  have  thought  there  was  danger  of  this,  and  that  was  one 
reason,  no  doubt,  why  he  gave  it  up.)  Early  in  the  fifties 
Leaves  of  Grass  began  to  take  a  sort  of  unconscious  shape  in  his 
mind.  In  1854  he  commenced  definitely  writing  out  the 
poems  that  were  printed  in  the  first  edition.  Though  most  of 
this  period  was  occupied  with  the  house-building  speculations, 
he  made  frequent  excursions  down  Long  Island,  and  at  times 
would  remain  away  in  some  solitary  place,  by  the  sea-shore  or  in 
the  woods,  for  weeks  at  a  time.  The  twelve  poems  which  make 
up  the  original  1855  edition  finished,  they  were  printed  at  the 
establishment  of  Andrew  and  James  Rome,  corner  of  Fulton  and 
Cranberry  Streets,  Brooklyn,  the  poet  himself  assisting  to  set 
the  type. 

I  insert  here  a  short  account  furnished  me  (in  Brooklyn  in 
July,  1 881)  by  a  person  who  knew  Walt  Whitman  soon  after 


J 


1850  to  '55.  25 

ij^^Q — that  is,  subsequent  to  his  30th  year.     I  give  it  in  the  nar- 
rator's own  words  as  I  jotted  them  down  at  the  time  : 

Wall  Wliitinaii  had  a  small  ]  rintinfj  oftlce  and  hook  store  on  Myrtle  Avenue, 
Hnioklyn,  wtierc  after  his  return  from  the  South  he  stalled  the  "  Freeman" 
newspaper,  first  as  wiekly,  then  as  daily,  and  continued  it  a  year  or  so.  The 
superficial  opinion  aljout  him  was  that  he  was  somewhat  of  an  idler,  "  a 
loafer,"  but  not  in  a  bad  sense.  He  always  earned  his  own  livinj;.  I 
thouf;ht  him  a  very  natural  person.  He  wore  plain,  cheap  clothes,  which 
were  always  particularly  clean.  Kverybody  knew  him,  everyone  almost 
liked  him.  We  all  of  us  (referring  to  the  other  members  of  his  family, 
hruthers,  sisters,  faliier  and  molhei),  long  before  he  published  Leaves  of 
Cniss,  looked  upon  him  as  a  man  who  was  to  make  a  mark  in  the  world.  He 
was  always  a  good  listener,  the  best  I  ever  knew — of  late  years,  I  think,  he 
talks  somewhat  more— in  those  early  years  (i84(j-'54j  he  talked  very  little 
indeed.  Wlien  he  did  talk  his  conversation  was  remarkably  pointed,  attrac- 
tive, and  clear.  When  Leaves  of  Crass  first  api)eared  I  thought  it  a  great 
work,  luit  that  the  man  was  greater  than  the  book.  His  singular  coolness 
was  an  especial  feature.  I  have  never  seen  him  e.xcited  m  the  least  degree: 
never  heard  him  swear  but  once.  He  was  (juite  gray  at  thirty.  He  had  a 
look  of  age  in  his  youth,  as  he  has  now  a  look  of  youth  in  his  age. 

The  great  International  Exhibition  or  World's  Fair  of  1853  in 
New  York,  in  that  vast  structure  (Sixth  Avenue  and  Fortieth 
Street)  of  glass  and  iron,  never  excelled  for  architectural  senti- 
ment and  beauty,  with  its  rare  and  ample  picture  collection  from 
luirope,  its  statues,  specimens  of  the  fabrics  of  all  nations,  silver 
and  gold  plate,  machinery,  ores,  woods  of  different  countries, 
with  its  immense  streams  of  visitors  day  and  night,  had  for  him 
a  powerful  attraction,  kept  up  for  nearly  a  year.  Among  his 
fiivorite  haunts  through  the  building  were  the  area  containing 
Thorwaldsen's  colossal  group  of  Christ  and  the  twelve  apostles, 
the  department  of  woods  and  timber,  the  thousand  works  in  the 
long  picture  gallery— a  collection  never  surpassed  in  any  land— 
and  then  occasionally  to  stand  a  long  while  under  the  lofty 
heavy  glass  dome. 

Early  in  1855  he  was  writing  Leaves  of  Grass  from  time  to 
time,  getting  it  in  shape.  Wrote  at  the  opera,  in  the  street,  on 
the  ferry-boat,  at  the  sea-side,  in  the  fields,  sometimes  stopped 
work  to  write.  Certainly  no  book  was  ever  more  directly  written 
from  living  impulses  and   impromptu   sights,  and   less  in   the 

3 


26  IV(7//  W/iitniaii. 

abstract.  Quit  liotisc  iMiilding  in  the  spring  of  1.S55  to  print 
and  publish  the  first  fdition.  'I'ht-n,  "when  the  book  aroused 
such  a  tempest  of  anger  and  condemnation  everywhere,"  to 
give  his  own  words  as  he  has  since  tohl  me,  "  I  went  off  to  the 
"cast  end  of  Long  Island,  and  spent  the  late  summer  and  all  the 
"  fall — the  happiest  of  my  life — around  Shelter  Island  and  Peco- 
**  nic  Bay.  Then  came  back  to  New  York  with  the  confirmed 
"resolution,  from  which  I  never  afterwards  wavered,  to  go  on 
"with  my  poetic  enterprise  in  my  own  way,  and  finish  it  as  well 
"as  I  could." 

Early  in  July  this  year  had  occurred  the  death  of  his  father, 
after  a  suffering  of  many  years,  from  serious  illness  and  prostra- 
tion. 

The  memoranda  whic:h  follow  were  written  for  this  volume  in 
1S81  by  a  lady — Miss  Helen  E.  Price,  of  Woodside,  Long 
Island — whose  accpiaintance  with  Walt  Whitman,  and  his  fre- 
quent temporary  residence  in  her  parents'  family,  make  her  pecu- 
liarly competent  to  present  a  picture  of  the  man  in  those  periods 
of  middle  life: 

My  acquaintance  with  Wall  Whitman  began  in  1856,  or  about  a  year  after 
he  pulilishcd  the  first  edition  uf  Leaves  of  Grass.  I  was  at  that  time  living 
with  my  jjarcnis  in  Urooklyn,  and  nllliougli  hardly  more  than  a  child  in  years, 
the  impression  made  upon  my  girlish  imagination  l)y  his  large,  grand  pres- 
ence, liis  loose,  free  dress,  and  liis  musical  voice  will  never  be  effaced.  From 
that  date  until  the  death  of  liis  mother,  in  1873,  he  was  often  a  visitor  at  our 
house,  as  I  at  his,  liis  mother  i)cing  only  less  dear  to  me  than  my  own. 

So  many  remembrances  of  him  in  those  by  gone  years  come  crowding  to 
my  mind  that  to  choose  what  wdl  be  mo>t  cliaracteristic,  and  most  likely  to 
interest  those  who  know  him  only  from  Ins  Ijooks,  is  a  task  to  which  I  fear  I 
shall  prove  unequal.  On  the  otiier  hand,  anything  1  might  write  of  him,  his 
conversation  especially,  when  deprived  of  the  magnetism  of  his  presence  and 
voice,  and  of  the  circumstances  and  occasions  which  called  forth  the  words, 
will,  I  am  painfully  aware,  seem  poor  and  tame. 

I  must  preface  my  first  anecdote  of  him  with  some  description  of  a  gentle- 
man with  whom  many  of  my  early  recollections  of  his  conversations  are 
connuctcd.  At  that  time  Mr.  A.  was  living  with  his  daughter's  family,  who 
occupied  with  us  the  same  house.  A.  was  a  man  of  wule  knowledge  and 
the  most  analytical  mind  of  any  one  I  ever  knew.  He  was  a  Swedenborgian, 
not  formally  belonging  to  the   church  of  that   name,  but  accepting  in  the 


Letter  from  Helen  IViee.  2/ 

main  tlic  doctrines  of  the  Swedish  seer  as  revealed  in  his  works.  Altliouj^h 
the  two  men  dilViMcd  (jrcUly  on  many  points,  such  was  the  mutual  esttcm  and 
forhcarancc  i)flwecn  lliom,  th.it  duriiit;  iho  many  laliis  they  liad  to^;Lliicr,  in 
wliich  I  sat  by  a  deliyhtcd  ii-.ti.'iier,  it  was  only  c)n  ono  occasion  (at  tlic  uiit- 
brealt  of  our  civil  war)  that  I  ever  noticed  the  sliylitcst  irritation  between 
them.  Kach,  tliouj^h  hoMinj;  mainly  to  his  own  views,  was  larj^e  cnouji;!)  to 
si-e  trutli  in  the  other's  presentation  also.  'I'lie  subject  of  many  of  tlieir  early 
Conversations  was  Democracy,  No  one  who  has  even  tlic  slightest  ac(iuaint- 
ance  with  Walt  Whitman's  writiiijjs  needs  to  be  told  what  were  and  are  his 
ideas  on  that  subject — with  what  passionate  ardor  he  espouses  the  cause  of 
the  people,  and  tlie  fervent  and  t,dowinjj  faitii  he  has  in  their  ultimate  destiny. 
Mr.  A.  rather  inclined  to  the  Carlylean  and  perhaps  Emersonian  idea,  tliat 
from  amonij  the  masses  are  to  be  found  only  here  and  there  individuals 
capable  of  riyhtly  yovcrninu  themselves  and  others,  as  in  myriads  of  grains 
of  sand,  there  are  only  occasional  diamonds — or  in  iniuiinerai)le  seeds,  only  a 
very  few  destined  to  develo|)  into  perfect  plants.  Some  months  after  our  first 
meeting  with  Mr.  Wliitin:in,  my  mother  invited  Mrs.  Eliza  A.  I-'arnum  (foriaer 
matron  of  Sing  Sing  prison)  to  meet  him  at  our  house.  In  the  beginning  of 
conversation  he  said  to  her,  ♦'  I  know  more  about  you,  Mrs.  Farnum,  than  you 
think  I  do ;  I  have  heard  you  spoken  of  often  by  friends  of  mine  at  Sing  Sing 
at  the  time  you  were  there."  Then  turning  to  Mr.  A.,  who  sat  near  by,  he 
added  in  a  lower  tone,  half  seriously,  half  quizzically,  "  Some  of  the  prisoners  ' 
This  was  said  solely  for  Mr.  A.'s  benefit,  as  a  kind  of  supplement  to  their  talks 
on  Democracy. 

No  one  could  possibly  have  more  aversion  to  being  lionized  than  Mr.  Whit- 
man. I  could  not  say  how  many  times,  after  getting  his  consent  to  meet  certain 
admirers  at  our  house,  he  has  vexed  and  annoyed  U5  by  staying  away.  At  one 
time  an  evening  was  appointed  to  meet  General  T.,  of  Philadelphia,  and  a 
number  of  others.  We  wailed  with  some  misgivings  for  his  appearance,  but 
he  came  at  last.  Soon  as  the  introductions  were  over,  he  sidled  off  to  a  corner 
of  the  room  where  there  was  a  group  of  young  children,  with  whom  he  talked 
an.;  laughed  and  played,  evidently  to  their  mutual  satisfaction.  Our  company, 
who  had  coine  from  a  distance  to  see  Mr.  Whitman,  and  did  not  expect  another 
opportunity,  were  ({uite  annoyed,  and  my  mother  was  finally  commissioned  to 
get  him  out  of  his  corner.  When  she  told  her  errand,  he  looked  up  with  the 
utmost  merriment,  and  said,  ♦' O,  yes — I'll  do  it — where  do  you  want  me  to 
sit?  On  the  piano?"  Me  went  forward  very  good-naturedly,  however,  but  I 
knew  that  his  happy  time  for  that  evening  was  over. 

A  friend  of  ours,  a  very  brilliant  and  intellectual  lady,  had  often  expressed 
a  great  desire  to  see  him— but  as  she  lived  out  of  town  it  was  difficult  to 
arrange  a  meeting.  One  day  she  came  to  our  house  full  of  animation  and 
triumph.  "  I  have  seen  Walt  Whitman  at  last,"  she  said.  «  I  was  sitting  in  the 
cabin  of  the  Brooklyn  ferry-boat  when  he  came  in.     I  knew  it  was  he;  it 


28  Wa/t  Whitman. 

couldn't  be  anyone  else;  and  as  he  walked  throuj^h  the  boat  with  such  an 
ek-i)liantinc  roll  and  suin;^,  I  could  liardly  keep  fioni  [^ctlini;  ri^ht  up  ind 
rolling  after  him."  Tiie  n(.:\t  time  he  called  we  related  this  to  hiiu  ;  he 
lau.L;hed  heartily,  and  frequently  afterward  alluded  to  his  "elephantine  roll." 

Mr.  Whitman  was  not  a  smooth,  glib,  or  even  a  very  lUient  talker.  His 
ideas  seemed  always  to  be  called  forth  or  suggested  by  what  was  said  before, 
and  he  would  frequently  hesitate  for  just  the  right  term  to  express  his  meaning. 
He  never  gave  the  impression  that  his  words  were  cut  and  dried  in  his  mind, 
or  at  his  tongue's  end,  to  be  used  on  occasion;  but  you  li.  cned  to  what  seemed 
to  be  freshly  thought,  which  gave  to  all  he  said  an  indescribable  charm.  His 
language  was  forcible,  rich  and  vivid  to  the  last  degree,  and  even  when  most 
serious  and  earnest,  his  talk  was  always  enlivened  by  frequent  gleams  of  humor. 
(I  believe  it  has  been  assumed  by  the  critics  that  he  has  no  humor.  There 
could  not  be  a  greater  mistake.)  I  have  said  that  in  conversation  he  was  not 
fluent,  yet  when  a  little  excited  in  talking  on  any  subject  very  near  his  heart, 
his  words  would  come  forth  rapidly,  and  in  strains  of  amazing  eloquence.  .At 
such  times  I  have  wished  our  little  circle  was  enlarged  a  hundred-fold,  that 
others  might  have  the  privilege  of  hearing  him. 

As  a  listener  (all  who  have  met  him  will  agree  with  me)  I  think  that  he 
was  and  is  unsurpassed.  lie  was  ever  more  anxious  to  hear  your  thought 
than  to  express  his  ow  n.  Often  when  asked  to  give  his  opinion  on  any  sub- 
ject, his  first  words  would  be,  "  Tell  me  wdiat  you  have  to  say  about  it."  His 
method  of  considering,  pondering,  what  Emerson  calls  "  entertaining,"  your 
thought  was  singularly  agreeable  and  flattering,  and  evidently  on  outgrowth 
of  his  natural  manner,  and  as  if  unconscious  of  paying  you  any  special  com- 
pliment. He  seemed  to  call  forth  the  best  there  was  in  those  he  met.  He 
never  appeared  to  me  a  conceited  or  egotistical  man,  though  I  have  frequently 
heard  lum  say  himself  that  he  was  so.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  always  unassum- 
ing and  modest  in  asserting  himself,  and  seemed  to  feel,  or  at  least  made  others 
feel,  that  their  opinions  were  more  valuable  than  his  own.  I  have  heard  him 
express  serious  doubt  as  to  what  would  be  the  final  judgment  of  posterity  on 
his  jioems,  or  "  pieces"  as  he  sometimes  called  them. 

I  have,  however,  seen  in  his  character  something  that,  for  wan*  of  a  better 
word,  I  would  call  vanity.  1  think  it  arose  from  his  superabundant  vitality 
and  strength.  All  through  those  years  he  gloried  in  his  health,  his  magnificent 
physical  proportions,  his  buoyant  and  overflowing  life  (this  was  in  the  first  ten 
years  of  my  acquaintance  with  him),  and  wdiatever  so-called  oddity  there  was 
in  his  dress  and  looks  arose,  T  think,  from  this  peculiar  consciousness  or  pride. 
We  all  thought  that  his  costume  suited  him,  and  liked  every  part  of  it  except 
his  hat.  He  wore  a  soft  Frencli  beaver,  with  rather  a  wide  brim  and  a  tower- 
ing crown,  which  was  always  pushed  up  high.  My  sister  would  sometimes 
take  it  slyly  just  before  he  was  ready  to  go,  flatten  the  crown,  and  fix  it  more 
in  accordance  with  the  shape  worn  by  others.     All  in  vain ;  invariably  on 


Letter  from  Helen  Price.  29 

talvincj  it  up  his  fist  would  be  thrust  inside,  and  it  would  speedily  nssume  its 
original  dimensions, 

Oni'  day,  in  183S  I  think,  he  came  to  sec  us,  and  after  talkinfr  awhile 
on  various  matters,  he  announced,  a  little  dirUdcntly  I  thoiiLjht,  that  he  had 
written  a  new  piece.  In  answer  to  our  inquiries,  he  said  it  was  about  a 
mocking  bird,  and  was  founded  on  a  real  incident.  My  mother  suggested 
that  he  bring  it  over  and  read  to  us,  which  he  promised  to  do.  In  some 
doul't,  in  spite  of  this  assurance,  we  were,  therefore,  agreeably  surprised 
wlieii  a  few  days  after  he  appeared  with  the  manuscript  of  "  Out  of  the  Cradle 
Endlessly  Rocking"  in  his  pocket.  At  first  he  wanted  one  of  us  to  read  it. 
Mr.  A.  took  it  and  read  it  through  with  great  appreciation  and  feeling,  lie 
then  asked  my  mother  to  read  it,  which  she  did.  And  hnally,  at  our  special 
recpie-t,  he  read  it  himself.  That  evening  comes  before  me  now  as  one  of  the 
moNt  enjoyable  of  my  life.  At  each  reading  fresh  beauties  revcale;!  themselves 
to  me.  I  could  not  say  whose  reading  I  i)referred  ;  he  liked  my  mother's,  and 
Mr.  A.  liked  his.  After  the  three  readings  were  over,  he  asked  each  one  of 
us  what  we  would  suggest  in  any  way,  and  I  can  remember  how  taken  aback 
and  nonplussed  I  was  when  lie  turned  and  asked  me  also. 

He  once  (I  forget  what  we  were  talking  about — friendship,  I  think)  said 
there  was  a  wonderful  depth  of  meaning  ("  at  second  or  third  removes,"  as  he 
called  itj  in  tlie  old  tales  of  mythology.  In  that  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  for 
instance;  it  meant  to  him  that  the  ardent  expression  in  words  of  affection 
often  tended  to  destroy  affection.  It  was  like  the  golden  fruit  which  turned 
to  ashes  upon  being  grasped,  or  even  touched.  As  an  illustration,  he  mentioned 
the  case  of  a  young  man  he  was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  every  morning  where 
he  went  to  work.  He  said  there  had  grown  up  between  them  a  delightful 
silent  friendship  and  sympathy.  But  one  morning  when  he  went  as  usual  to 
the  office,  the  young  man  came  forward,  shook  him  violently  by  the  hand,  and 
exi  .cssed  in  heated  language  the  affection  he  felt  for  him.  Mr.  Whitman  said 
that  all  the  subtle  charm  of  their  unspoken  friendship  was  f-om  that  time  gone. 

He  was  always  an  ardent  lover  of  music,  and  heard  all  die  operas,  ora- 
torios, bands,  and  all  the  great  singers  who  visited  New  York  during  those 
years.  I  heard  him  very  frequently  speak  of  Grisi,  Mario,  Sontag,  La  Grange, 
Jenny  Lind,  Alboni,  Bosio,  Truffi,  Bettini,  Marini,  Badiali,  Mrs.  Wood,  Mrs. 
Seguin  ;  and  I  was  never  tired  of  listening  to  his  accounts  of  them.  Albinii 
he  considered  by  far  the  greatest  of  them  all,  both  as  regards  voice  and  emo- 
tional and  artistic  power.  If  I  remember  rightly,  he  told  me  that  during  her 
engagament  in  the  city  he  M-ent  to  hear  her  twenty  nights.  Brignoli  in  his 
prime  he  thought  superior  to  Mario.  Bettini,  however,  was  his  favorite  tenor, 
and  P.adiali,  the  baritone,  was  another  favorite.  In  talking  to  him  once  about 
music  I  found  he  had  read  George  Sand's  "  Consuclo,"  and  enjoyed  it 
thoroughly.  One  passage  he  liked  best  was  where  Consuclo  sings  in  church 
at  the  very  beginning  of  her  musical  career.     lie  said  he  had  read  it  over 


30  J  J  "a//  Whitman. 

many  times.  I  remember  hearing  him  mention  other  l)ool<s  of  George  Sand's, 
"the  Journeyman  Joiner"  and  tlie  "  Devil's  I'ool,"  wliich  he  liked  nuicli. 

But  although  he  talked  of  niu>ic  and  books  with  me,  and  of  pobtics,  patriot- 
ism, and  the  news  of  the  day  with  Mr.  A.,  it  was  in  talking  with  my  mother 
on  the  spiritual  nature  of  man,  and  on  the  rcf(n-nis  of  the  age  and  kindred 
themes,  tiiat  he  took  special  delight.  These  appeared  to  be  liis  favorite  topics, 
and  she,  having  similar  sympathies  and  tastes,  would  take  an  equal  pleasure 
with  himself  in  discussing  them.  It  was  the  society  of  my  mother  that  was 
certainly  Walt  Whitman's  greatest  attraction  to  our  house.  She  had  a  nature 
in  many  respects  akin  to  his  own — a  broad,  comprehensive  mind,  which 
enabled  her  to  look  beyond  and  through  externals  into  the  essence  of  things 
— a  large,  generous  spirit  in  ju  Iging  whoever  she  came  in  contact  with,  always 
recognizing  the  good  and  ignoring  the  evil — a  strong  deep  faith  in  an  infmite 
overruling  goodness  and  power,  and  a  most  tender  and  loving  heart.  How 
many  times  has  she  taken  in  outcasts  wdio  have  come  to  our  door,  and  treated 
them  to  the  best  the  house  alTordcd,  regardless  of  dirt,  disease,  everything  but 
their  humanity  and  suffering.  How  many  times  (not  always  however)  has 
she  been  most  wofully  deceived  and  drawn  into  much  trouble  thereby.  It 
made  no  difference,  the  next  one  that  came  would  be  treated  with  the  same 
hospitality  in  sinte  of  all  remonstrance  and  argument.  She  has  gone  to  that 
unknown  world  she  was  so  fond  of  speculating  upon,  and  never  will  the 
memory  of  her  unselfish  life,  her  exceeding  love  and  charity,  fade  from  the 
hearts  of  her  children  and  friends.  It  was  in  her  friendship,  and  in  this 
7uoiin'n's  circle — a  mother  and  two  daughters — that  Mr,  Whitman  passed  not 
a  few  of  his  leisure  hours  during  all  those  years. 

Walt  Whitman,  the  most  intuitive  man  I  ever  knew,  had  the  least  regard 

for  mere  verbal  smartness.     While  seeing  him  listening  with  bent  head  to  Mr. 

A.'s  arguments  upt)n  some  point  on  which  they  radically  differed,  I  have  often 

been  reminded  of  that  passage  in  his  book, 

Logic  and  sermons  never  convince  ; 

The  damp  of  tlie  night  drives  deeper  into  my  soul. 

While  admitting  and  appreciating  the  force  of  reason  and  logic,  yet  if  they 
were  in  conflict  with  what  he  f^lt  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  to  be  true,  he 
would  hold  fast  to  the  latter,  even  though  he  could  give  no  satisfactory  reason 
for  so  doing.  Though  he  would  himself  pooh-pooh  the  assumption,  I  have 
no  doubt  also  he  had  spells  of  singular  abstr.acticm  and  exaltation.  I  re- 
member hearing  my  mother  describe  an  interview  she  once  had  with  him 
while  we  were  living  in  Brooklyn  during  the  early  years  of  our  acquaintance. 
Death  was  the  subject  of  their  conversation.  For  a  few  minutes,  she  said, 
his  face  wore  an  expression  she  had  never  seen  before — he  seemed  rapt,  ab- 
sorbed. In  describing  it  afterward,  she  said  he  appeared  like  a  man  in  a 
trance.  Is  not  this  a  clue  to  many  pages  in  Leaves  of  Grass  ?  It  would 
almost  seem  that  in  writing  his  poems  he  was  taken  possession  of  by  a  force, 


Letter  from  Helen  Priec.  3 1 

genius,  inspiration,  or  whatever  it  may  he  called,  that  he  was  powerless  to 
rc-i>t.  We  all  felt  this  strange  power  on  fir^t  leading  his  book,  and  that  his 
poetry  both  was  and  was  not  part  of  himself.  So  that  (as  sometimes  happened 
afterward)  when  he  would  say  things  at  variance  with  what  he  liad  written, 
Mr.  A.  would  remark  to  him,  half  jokingly,  "  Why,  Walt,  you  ought  to  read 
Lca-'cs  of  Grass''  After  the  interview  I  have  just  described,  my  mother 
always  felt  that  she  had  seen  him  in  the  state  in  which  many  of  the  earlier 
poems  were  conceived. 

I  never  took  notes  of  liis  conversations,  and  can  only  recall  the  general 
impression  they  made  upon  me.  I  can  remember  an  occasional  expression  or 
opinion,  i)ut  nothing  of  any  importance.  My  brother  and  I  were  starting  out 
one  morning  to  choose  a  parlor  carpet.  Hearing  of  our  errand  he  said, 
"  Wiiat  a  good  idea  it  would  be  to  have  the  pattern  of  a  carpet  designed  of 
leaves— nothing  but  leaves — all  sizes,  shapes,  and  colors,  like  the  ground 
under  tlie  trees  in  autumn." 

I  met  him  once  in  the  l^rooklyn  street  cars,  soon  after  an  article  appeared 
in  "llie  Radical"  entitled  "A  Woman's  Estimate  of  Walt  Whitman."  He 
a^ked  if  I  had  read  it.  I  answered  that  I  had,  and  ihat  I  siiould  think  he 
would  like  to  know  the  lady  wlio  wrote  it.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  that  does  not  so 
niiieii  matter.  I  do  not  even  know  her  name."  After  a  pause,  he  added,  "  But 
it  was  a  great  comfort  to  me." 

If  I  were  asked  what  I  considered  Wall  Whitman's  leading  characteristic, 
I  should  say — and  it  is  an  opinion  formed  upon  an  acquaintance  of  over 
twenty  years — his  religions  sentiment  or  feeling.  It  pervades  and  dominates 
his  life,  and  1  think  no  one  could  be  in  his  presence  any  length  of  time  with- 
out ])eing  impressed  by  it.  He  is  a  born  exalti.  His  is  not  that  religion,  or 
show  of  it,  that  is  comprised  in  dogmas,  churches,  creeds,  etc.  These  are  of 
little  or  no  consequence  to  him,  but  it  is  that  habitual  state  of  feeling  in  which 
the  person  regards  everything  in  God's  universe  with  wonder,  reverence,  per- 
fect acceptance,  and  love.  He  has  more  of  all  this  than  any  one  I  have  ever 
met.  Tlie  deeply  earnest  spirit  with  wdiich  he  looks  upon  humanity  and  life  is 
so  utterly  opposed  to  cynicism  and  persiflage,  that  these  always  chill  and  repel 
him.  He  himself  laughs  at  nothing  (in  a  contemptuous  sense),  looks  down 
on  nothing — on  the  contrary  everything  is  beautiful  and  wonderful  to  him. 

One  day  I  called  upon  his  mother  in  Brooklyn  and  found  him  there. 
Wiien  I  was  going  home  he  said  he  would  cross  the  ferry  with  me.  On  our 
journey  we  had  to  pass  through  one  of  the  great  markets  of  New  York  in 
order  to  reach  the  cars  running  to  the  upper  part  of  the  city.  I  was  hurrying 
tlnough,  according  to  my  usual  custom,  but  he  kept  constantly  stopping  me  to 
point  out  the  jjcautiful  combinations  of  color  at  the  butchers'  stalls,  and  other 
.stands;  but  above  all  the  tish  excited  in  him  cpiite  an  enthusiasm.  He  made 
me  admire  their  beautiful  shapes  and  delicate  tints,  and  I  learned  from  him 
that  day  a  lesson  I  have  never  forgotten. 


32  IVaU  Whitman. 

One  evening  in  1866,  while  he  was  stopping  with  us  in  New  York,  the  tea 
bell  had  been  rung  ten  minutes  or  more  when  he  came  down  from  his  room, 
and  we  all  gathered  around  the  table.  I  remarked  him  as  he  entered  the 
room ;  tiiere  seemed  to  be  a  peculiar  briglitness  and  elation  about  him,  an 
almost  irrepressible  joyousness,  which  shone  from  liis  face  and  seemed  to  per- 
vade his  whole  body.  It  was  the  more  noticeable  as  his  ordinary  mood 
was  one  of  <|uiet,  yet  cheerful  serenity.  I  knew  he  had  been  working  at 
a  new  edition  of  his  book,  and  I  hoped  if  he  had  an  opportunity  he  woul  1 
say  something  to  let  us  into  the  secret  of  his  mysterious  joy.  Unfortunately 
most  of  those  at  the  table  were  occujiied  with  some  subject  of  conversation; 
at  every  pause  I  waited  eagerly  for  him  to  speak ;  but  no,  some  one  else 
would  begin  again,  until  I  grew  almost  wild  with  impatience  and  vexation. 
He  appeared  to  listen,  and  would  even  laugh  at  some  of  the  remarks  that 
were  made,  yet  he  did  not  utter  a  single  word  during  the  meal ;  and  his  face 
still  wore  that  singular  brightness  and  delight,  as  though  he  had  partaken  of 
some  divine  elixir.  His  expression  was  so  remarkable  that  I  might  have 
doubted  my  own  observation,  had  it  not  been  noticed  by  another  as  well  as 
myself. 

I  never  heard  him  allude  directly  but  once  to  what  has  been  so  severely 
condemned  in  his  books.  It  happened  in  this  way.  He  had  come  on  from 
Washington  and  was  stojiping  with  us  at  the  time  (it  was  in  1S66),  prepar- 
ing the  new  edition  of  Lcaiu's  of  Grass  just  spoken  of.  My  mother  and  I 
were  busy  sewing  in  the  sitting-room  when  he  came  back  from  a  two  hours' 
absence  and  threw  himself  on  the  lounge.  He  said  he  had  been  offered  verv 
favorable  terms  by  a  publisher  down  town  (we  were  living  in  the  ui)per  pau 
of  New  York  at  that  time)  if  he  would  consent  to  leave  out  a  few  lines  from 
two  of  his  pieces.  "  But  I  dare  not  do  it,"  he  said  ;  "  I  dare  not  leave  out  or 
alter  what  is  so  genuine,  so  indispensable,  so  lofty,  so  pure."  Those  were  his 
exact  words.  The  intense,  I  might  almost  say  religious,  earnestness  with 
which  ihey  were  uttered  made  an  impression  upon  me  that  I  shall  never 
forget. 

Here  is  another  authentic  personal  account  out  of  those  years 
— say  from  1854  to  '60 — taken  from  the  New  York  "World" 
of  June  4th,  1882,  and  written  by  Thomas  A.  Gere : 

Thirty  years  ago,  while  cm])loycd  upon  an  East  River  steamboat,  I  became 
acquainted  with  Walt  Whitman,  and  the  association  'las  ever  since  been  a 
treasured  one  by  myself  and  the  rest  of  my  companion  boatmen.  He  came 
among  us  simply  as  a  sociable  passenger,  but  his  genial  behavior  soon  made 
him  a  most  welcome  visitor.  We  knew  somewhat  of  his  reputation  as  a  man 
of  letters,  but  the  fact  made  no  great  impression  upon  us,  nor  tlid  he  ever 
attempt  a  display  of  his  gifts  or  learning  that  would  in  the  least  make  us  feel 
he  was  not  "  of  us,  and  one  of  us,"  as  he  used  to  express  it.     In  a  charm- 


Letter  from  TJiovias  Gere.  33 

inqly  practical  democratic  manner  he  took  great  pains  to  teach  many  vahiahle 
tiiint^s  to  a  liard-handcd  l)and  of  men  wiiose  life  had  art'ordcd  little  time  for 
books.  In  later  years  I  have  realized  that  "Walt" — he  would  allow  no 
other  salutation  from  us — has  done  much  gratuitous  work  as  a  teacher,  and  in 
looking  back  I  also  realize  his  excellence  as  an  instructor.  A  careful  choice 
of  words  and  terse  method  of  explaininT  a  subject  were  truly  peculi;ir  to  hini 
— at  least  the  faculty  was  marvellous  to  us.  In  our  luny  watches — he  would 
pass  entire  afternoons  and  even  nights  with  us — he  would  discourse  in  a  clear, 
conversational  sort  of  way  upon  politics,  literature,  art,  music  or  the  dr:ima, 
from  a  seemingly  Q(|dless  storing  of  knowledge.  He  certainly  urged  some  of 
u^  into  a  desire  for  attainments  that  jierhaps  would  not  otherwise  have  been 
ar(jusetl. 

"  My  boy,"  he  would  often  say,  after  simply  but  eloquently  treating  some 
theme,  "  you  must  read  more  of  this  for  yourself,"  and  then  generously  put  his 
liimiry  at  the  li>tener's  service.  I  have  seen  a  youth  swabbing  a  steamboat's 
(leek  with  Walt's  Homer  in  his  munkey-jacket  pocket !  At  all  times  he  was 
keenly  inquisitive  in  matters  that  belonged  to  the  river  or  boat.  He  had  to 
have  a  reason  for  the  actions  of  the  pilot,  engineer,  fireman  and  even  deck- 
hands. Besides,  he  would  learn  the  details  of  everything  on  board,  from 
the  knotted  end  of  a  bucket-rope  to  the  construction  of  the  engine.  "  Tell  me 
all  about  it,  boys,"  he  would  say,  "  for  these  are  the  real  things  I  cannot  get 
out  of  books."  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  such  inrjuisitivencss  must  always 
have  been  an  industrious  habit  with  him,  for  his  writings  abound  with  apt 
technicalities. 

Walt's  appearance  used  to  attract  great  attention  from  the  passengers  wdien 
he  came  on  board  the  boat.  He  was  (juite  six  feet  in  height,  with  the  frame 
of  a  gladiator,  a  flowing  gray  beard  mingled  with  the  hairs  on  his  broad, 
slightly  bared  chest.  In  his  welldaundried  checked  shirt-sleeves,  with  trous- 
ers fre(|uenily  pushed  into  his  boot-legs,  his  fine  head  covered  with  an  immense 
sluuched  black  or  light  felt  hat,  he  would  walk  about  with  a  naturally  ma- 
jestic stride,  a  massive  model  of  ease  and  independence.  1  hardly  think  his 
style  of  dress  in  those  days  was  meant  to  be  eccentric;  he  was  very  antago- 
nistic to  all  show  or  sham,  and  I  fancy  he  merely  attired  himself  in  what  was 
h.uuly,  clean,  economical  and  comfortable.  His  marked  appearance,  how- 
ever, obtained  for  him  a  variety  of  callings  in  the  minds  of  passengers  who 
did  not  know  him.  "Is  he  a  retired  sea  captain?"  some  would  ask;  "an 
actor?  a  military  officer?  a  clergyman?  Had  he  been  a  smuggler,  or  in  the 
slave  trade?"  To  amuse  Walt  I  frerpiently  rei)eated  these  odd  speculations 
uiion  him.  He  laughed  until  the  tears  ran  wdien  I  once  told  him  that  a  very 
coiilukntial  observer  had  assured  me  he  was  cra^y ! 

Wh'.t  enjoyable  nights  they  were  when  Walt  would  come  to  us  after  a  long 
sludy  at  home  or  in  some  prominent  New  \'ork  library!  He  would, 
indeed,  "  loaf"   and  unbend  to  our  great  delight  with  rich,  witty  anecdotes 


34  IVa/^  W/ulinan. 

and  pleasant  sarcasms  upon  some  events  and  men  of  the  day.  At  times  he 
would  be  joininl  by  some  literary  acquaintance,  generally  to  our  disgust,  or 
perhaps  I  should  say  jealousy,  for  we  fancied  that  in  some  way  we  rather 
owned  Walt;  but  the  lonj;  classical  debates  that  would  occur,  and  deep  sub- 
jects that  would  be  dug  up,  used  to  waste  the  night  in  a  most  exasperating 
tk'i^rec. 

Walt's  musical  ability  was  a  very  entertaining  quality :  he  was  devotedly 
fond  of  opera,  and  many  were  the  pleasant  scraps  and  airs  with  which  he 
would  enliven  us  in  a  round,  manly  voice,  when  passengers  were  few  and 
those  few  likely  to  be  asleep  on  the  seats.  Our  best  attention  was  given  to  his 
recitations.  In  my  judgment  few  could  excel  his  reading  of  stirring  poems 
and  brilliant  Shakespearian  passages.  These  things  he  vented  evidently  for 
his  own  practice  or  amusement.  I  have  heard  him  proceed  to  a  length  of 
some  solilotpiy  in  "  Ilamlct,"  "Lear,"  "  Coriolanus  "  and  "  Macbeth,"  and 
when  ho  liad  stopped  suddenly  and  said  with  intense  dissatisfaction,  "  No  !  no ! 
no!  that's  the  way  the  bad  actors  would  do  it,"  he  would  start  off  again  and 
recite  the  part  most  impressively. 

It  is  believed  and  asserted  ihat  his  works  will  yet  rise  to  meritorious  emi- 
nence. Of  this  I  do  not  feel  competent  to  s|)eak.  I  did  not  know  him  as  the 
"  Clray-Maned  Lion  of  Camden,"  or  "  America's  Good  Gray  Poet,"  but 
simply  as  dear  old  Walt.  T.  A.  G. 

Walt  Whitman  kept  on  for  some  years,  working  probably  half 
the  time,  (though  his  life  those  years  was  so  leisurely  and  free,  he 
averaged  from  six  to  seven  hours  regular  labor  every  day  from 
his  thirteenth  year  to  past  fifty),  making  trips  into  the  country, 
writing  poems,  and,  above  all,  enjoying  life  as  it  has  seldom  been 
enjoyed — until  the  breaking  out  of  the  Secession  War.  That 
event,  which  affected  the  business  and  the  feelings  of  every  per- 
son in  the  country,  had  an  extraordinary  bearing  upon  him.  His 
brother  George  had  volunteered  and  gone  to  the  front.  One 
morning  in  the  middle  of  December,  1862,  just  after  the  first 
Fredericksburg  battle,  they  saw  by  the  military  news  in  the  New 
York  "Herald"  that  George  was  wounded,  it  was  thought 
seriously.  Walt  Whitman  at  an  hour's  notice  started  for  the 
army  camp  on  the  Rappahannock.  He  found  his  brother  wounded 
in  the  face  by  a  fragment  of  shell,  but  the  hurt  not  serious  and 
already  healing.  The  poet  stayed  several  weeks  in  camp,  absorb- 
ing all  the  grim  sights  and  experiences  of  actual  campaigning 
(and  nothing  could  have  been  gloomier  or  more  bloody  than  the 


In  the  War's  darkest  time.  35 

season  following  "first  Fredericksburg")  through  the  depth  of 
winter,  in  the  llimsy  shelter-tents,  and  in  the  impromptu  hospi- 
tals, where  thousands  lay  wounded,  helpless,  dying.  He  then 
returned  to  Washington,  in  charge  of  sonie  Brooklyn  soUliers 
with  amputated  limbs  or  down  with  illness.  He  had  no  definite 
I)lans  at  that  time,  or  for  long  afterwards ;  but  attention  to  the 
ISrooklyn  friends  led  to  nursing  others,  and  he  stayed  on  and  on, 
gradually  falling  into  the  labor  and  occupation,  with  reference  to 
the  war,  which  would  do  the  most  good,  and  be  most  satisfactory 
to  himself. 

I  have  heard  him  say  that  he  was  as  much  astonished  as  any 
one  at  the  success  of  that  pergonal  ministration  in  the  army  hos- 
jiitals.  To  pay  his  way  he  began  writing  correspondence  for  the 
New  York  and  other  papers ;  his  letters  were  accepted  and  quite 
handsomely  remunerated.  So  he  stayed  at  Washington  month 
after  month,  engaged  in  the  work  of  the  hospitals,  and  from  time 
to  time  visiting  the  battle-fields.  His  services  seemed  imperi- 
ously needed.  At  that  period,  indeed  the  gloomiest  of  the  war, 
hundreds  of  the  sick  and  wounded  of  both  armies  were  literally 
perishing  for  the  want  of  decent  care.  His  work  as  now  com- 
menced and  continueil  for  two  to  three  years  has  never  been, 
and  ])erhaps  never  will  be  fully  told.  Doubtless  it  best  remains 
in  the  memories  of  the  saved  soldiers.  In  two  extracts  which 
follow  presently,  and  perhaps  still  better  by  suggestion  in  W. 
D.  O'Connor's  "Carpenter,"*  those  three  years  are  but  out- 
lined. A  surgeon  who  throughout  the  war  had  charge  of  one 
of  the  largest  army  hosi^itals  in  Washington  has  told  the  pres- 
ent writer  that  (without  personal  acquaintance,  or  any  other 
than  professional  interest)  he  watched  for  many  months  Walt 
Whitman's  ministerings  to  the  sick  and  wounded,  and  was  satis- 
fied that  he  saved  many  lives.  I  do  not  believe  this  statement 
exaggerated.  1  believe,  knowing  Walt  Whitman  as  I  do,  and 
having  some  knowledge  of  medicine,  that  the  man  did  possess 
an  extraordinary  power,  by  which  he  must  have  been  able  in 
many  cases  to  turn  the  scale  in  favor  of  life,  when  without  him 


*  The  Caki'knter— A  Christmas  story-by  the    author  of   "  The  Ghost. "-Putnam's 
Monthly  Magazine,  Januarj-,  1868, 


36  11 W/  iniitnmfi. 

the  result  would  have  been  death.  The  following  extract  is  from 
a  letter  by  John  Swinton  in  the  New  York  "Herald"  of  April 
1st,  1.S76 : 

For  nearly  twenty  years  I  Iiavo  been  on  terms  of  afTectionate  intimacy  with 
Walt  Wliitnian.  I  knew  iiini  in  liis  splendid  prime,  when  his  familiar  li^ure 
was  daily  seen  on  iiroadway,  and  wlien  he  was  hroodinj^  over  those  extraor- 
dinary poems  whieh  have  since  heen  put  into  half  a  do/.en  languages,  and 
connu.mded  the  homage  of  many  of  the  greatest  minds  in  modern  literature. 
From  then  to  the  time  (jf  his  paralysis  I  know  of  his  life  and  deeds.  Rich 
in  good  works  and  in  saddening  trials,  he  has  remaine<l  the  same  genuine  man, 
in  whom  the  well  s])rings  of  poitry  give  perpetual  fre>hness  to  the  passinjj 
years.  His  paralysis  was  the  result  of  his  exhausting  labors  among  our  sick 
an<l  wounded  soldiers  in  tlie  hospitals  near  Washington  during  the  war.  1 
saw  something  of  these  labors  when  I  was  visiting  the  hos|)itals.  I  c.in  testify,  as 
countless  others  can,  that  for  at  least  three  years  the  "  (nxjd  Chay  I'oet ''  spent 
a  large  porticMi  of  his  time,  day  and  night,  m  the  hospitals,  as  nurse  and 
comforter  of  those  who  had  been  maimeil  or  (otherwise  prostrated  in  the  ser- 
vice of  their  country.  1  first  heard  of  him  among  the  sulTerers  on  the  Penin- 
sula after  a  battle  there.  Subscjuently  I  saw  iiim,  time  and  again,  in  the 
Washington  hospitals,  or  wending  his  way  there  with  basket  or  haversack 
on  his  arm,  and  the  strength  of  l)enericence  suffusing  his  face.  His  devotion 
surpassed  the  devotion  of  woman.  It  would  take  a  volume  to  tell  of  his 
kindness,  tenderness,  and  tlioughtfulness. 

Never  shall  I  forget  one  night  when  I  accompanied  him  on  his  rounds 
through  a  hospital,  fdh  a  with  those  wounded  young  Americans  whose  liero- 
ism  he  has  sung  m  deathless  numbers.  There  were  three  rows  of  cots,  and 
each  cot  bore  its  man.  When  he  appeared,  in  passing  along,  there  was  a 
smile  of  affection  and  welcome  on  every  face,  however  wan,  and  his  presence 
seemed  to  light  up  tiie  place  as  it  might  be  lit  by  the  presence  of  the  Son  of 
Love.  From  cot  to  cot  they  called  him,  often  in  tremulous  tones  or  in  whis. 
pers;  liiey  embraced  him,  they  touched  his  hand,  they  gazed  at  him.  To  one  he 
gave  a  few  words  of  clieer,  for  another  he  wrote  a  letter  home,  to  others  he  gave 
an  orange,  a  few  comfits,  a  cigar,  a  pipe  and  tobacco,  a  sheet  of  paper  or  a  post- 
age stamp,  all  of  whieli  and  many  other  things  were  in  his  capacious  ha  /er- 
sack.  From  another  he  would  receive  a  dying  message  for  mother,  wife,  or 
sweetheart;  for  another  he  would  promise  to  go  an  errand;  to  anotlier,  some 
special  friend,  very  low,  he  would  give  a  manly  farewell  kiss,  lie  did  the 
things  for  them  wliich  no  nurse  or  doctor  could  do,  and  he  seemed  to  leave  a 
Ijenediction  at  every  cot  as  he  ]xissed  along.  Tiie  lights  had  glramed  for  hours 
in  the  hospital  that  night  before  he  left  it,  and  as  he  took  his  way  tnwards  the 
door,  you  could  hear  the  voice  of  many  a  stricken  hero  calling,  "  Walt,  Walt, 
Walt,  come  again  !  come  again  !  " 


Letter  from  G.  S.  McWatters.  37 

His  liaskct  anil  store,  filled  with  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends  for  the  men,  had 
been  eni|)tie<l.  He  had  really  little  to  j^'ive,  hut  it  seemed  to  me  as  thuuyh  he 
gave  more  than  other  men. 

I Krc  also  is  a  paragraph  from  the  New  York  "Tribune,"  by 
(t.  S.  McWatters,  summer  of  i<S8o: 

While  walkiuK'  in  the  nei!,'hl)orh.)od  of  New  Rochelle,  Westchester  County, 
a  few  (lays  ago,  I  observed  a  man  at  work  in  a  field  adjoining  the  road,  and  1 
opene.l  a  conversation  with  him.      He  had  served  in  the  Union  Army  during 
the  Kebeilion,  and  I  had  no  trouijle  in  inducing  him  to  fight  some  of  his  bat- 
tles over  again.     He  gave   me  a  graphic  description  of  how  he  was  badly 
wounded  in  the  leg;  how  the  doctors  resolved  to  cut  his  legolT;   his  resistance 
to  the  proposed  amputation,  an.l  his  utter  despair  when  he  found  he  must  lose 
his  leg  (as  they  said )  to  save  his  life.   As  a  la^t  resort,  he  determined  to  appeal 
to  a  man  who  visited  the  hospital  al)oul  every  alternate  day.     This  man  was  a 
representative  of  the  Sanitary  Commission  [this  of  course  is  a  mistake],  and 
he  described  him  as  a  tall,  well  liuilt  man  with  the  Hxce  of  an  angel.   He  car- 
ried over  his  broad  sht)ul(lers  a  well-filled  haversack,  containing  about  every- 
tiiing  that  wouhl  give  a  sick  soldier  comfcjrt.     In  it  were  pens,  ink  and  paper, 
thread,  needles,  buttons,  cakes,  candy,  fruit,  and  above  all,  pipes  and  tolwcco. 
This  last  article  was  in  general  demand.     When  he  asked  a  poor  fellow  if  he 
u>ed  tobacco  and  tlie  answer  was  "  no  "  he  would  express  some  kind  words  of 
commendation,  but  when  the  answer  was  "  yes,"  he  would  jiroduce  a  piece  of 
plug  and  smilingly  say,  "Take  it,  my  brave  boy,  and  enjoy  it."     He  wrote 
letters  for  those  who  were  not  able  to  write,  and  to  those  who  could  he  would 
furnish  the  materials,  and  never  forgot  the  postage  stamp.     His  good-natured 
and  sympathetic  in  piiry  alnnit  their  health  and  what  changes  had  taken  place 
since  he  last  saw  them,  i,-.ipresseil  every  patient  with  the  feeling  that  he  was 
their  personal  friend.     To  Miis  man  Ralferty  (that  was  my  informant's  name) 
made  his  last  appeal  to  save  his  shattered  leg.    He  was  li.stened  to  with  atten- 
tion, a  minute  inquiry  into  his  case,  a  pause,  and  after  a  few  moments'  thought 
the  man  replied,  patting  Iiim  on  the  head,  "  May  your  mind  rest  easy,  my  boy; 
they  shan't  take  it   off."     Rafferty  began   to   descril)e   his  feelings  when  he 
received  this  assurance,  and  though  so  many  years  have  passed  since  then,  his 
emotions  mastered  him,  his  voice  trembled  and  thickened,  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  he  stopped  for  a  moment  and  then  blurted  out,  slapping  his  leg  with  lis 
hand,  "  This  is  the   leg  that   man  saved  for  me."     I  asked  the  name  (jf  the 
Good  Samaritan.  He  said  he  thought  it  was  Whitcomh  or  something  like  tliat. 
I  suggo^ted  it  was  just  like  Walt  Whitman.    The  name  seemed  to  rouse  the  old 
soldier  within  him;   he  did  nut  wait  for  another  word  from  me.  but  seized  my 
handin  b..th  of  his,  and  cried,  "That's  the  man,   that's  the  name;  do  you 
I^U'nv  liiin  ?" 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  by  a  lady  addressed  to  the 


38  nW/  ]V/iitni(Vi. 

present  writer  will  help  to  show  how  Walt  Whitman  saved  money 
to  get  little  comforts  (or  those  hospital  inmates: 

I  rcmtinhcr  lalliiig  upon  him  in  Wasliju^jfon  (liiiiii}^  the  war,  with  Mr.  T. 
He  occupied  a  little  roDUj  in  the  third  or  fourth  story  of  a  house  where  he 
couM  j^tt  tiie  cheapest  rent.  He  was  just  eating  his  breakfast;  it  was  about 
lo  A.M.;  he  sat  beside  the  lire,  toasting  a  slice  of  bread  on  a  jackknife,  with 
.1  cup  of  tea  without  milk  ;  a  little  sugar  in  a  brown  paper,  and  butter  in  some 
more  brown  paiu'r.  He  was  niakiu}^  his  meal  for  tl.e  next  eight  hours.  He 
was  u^ing  all  his  nieans  anil  time  and  energies  for  the  bick  and  wounded  in 
the  hospitals. 

Finally,  the  letter  which  follows — (one  of  hundreds  that  of 
course  never  dreamed  of  seeing  print,  recovered  by  me  by  a 
lucky  accident),  written  by  Walt  Whitman  himself  to  Mrs.  Price, 
mother  of  the  lady  whose  reminiscences  are  given  some  pages 
back — will  help  to  throw  light  on  this  part  of  his  life: 

Washington,  October  nth,  1863. 

Dkar  Frif.nd:  Your  letters  were  both  received,  and  were  indeed  welcome. 
Don'i  mind  my  not  answering  them  promptly,  for  you  know  what  a  wretch  I 
am  about  such  things.  But  you  must  write  just  as  often  as  you  conveniently 
can.  Tell  me  all  about  your  folks,  especially  the  girls,  and  about  Mr.  A.  Of 
course  you  won't  forget  Artliur,  and  always  when  you  write  to  him  send  my 
love.  Tell  me  about  Mrs.  U.  and  the  dear  little  rogues.  Tell  Mrs.  B.  she 
ought  to  be  here,  hos]iital  matron,  only  it  is  a  harder  pull  tlian  folks  anticipate. 
You  wrote  atiout  Kmma,  her  thinking  she  miglit  and  ought  to  come  as  nurse 
for  the  soldiers.  Dear  girl,  I  know  it  would  be  a  blessed  thing  for  the  men  to 
have  her  loving  spirit  and  hand.  But,  my  darling,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing — you 
don't  know  these  wounds,  sickness,  etc.,  the  sad  condition  in  which  many  of 
the  men  are  brought  here,  and  remain  for  days;  sometimes  the  wounds  full  of 
crawling  corruption,  etc.  Down  in  the  field  hospitals  in  front  they  have  no 
proper  care  (can't  have),  and  after  a  battle  go  for  many  days  unattended  to. 

Abby,  I  think  often  about  you  and  the  pleasant  days,  the  visits  I  used  to  pay 
you,  and  how  good  it  was  alw.ays  to  be  made  so  welcome.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could 
come  in  this  afternoon  and  have  a  good  tea  with  you,  and  have  three  or  four 
hours  of  mutual  comfort,  and  rest  and  talk,  and  be  all  of  us  together  again.  Is 
Helen  home  and  well?  ami  what  is  she  doing  now  ?  And  you,  my  dear 
friend,  how  sorry  I  am  to  hear  that  your  health  is  not  rugged — but,  dear  Abby, 
you  must  not  dwell  on  anticipations  of  the  worst  (but  I  know  that  is  not  your 
nature,  or  did  not  use  to  be).  T  hope  this  will  find  you  feeling  quite  well  and 
in  good  spirits — I  feel  so  tremendously  well  myself — I  will  have  to  come  and 
show  myself  to  you,  I  think — I  am  so  fat,  good  appetite,  out  considerably  in 


Litter  from  Washington,   1863.  39 

tlic  open  air,  and  all  red  and  tanned  worse  tlian  ever.  Yon  sec,  therefore,  that 
my  lift-  amid  these  sad  anc!  dcatli-stricken  hospitals  has  not  told  at  all  hadly 
upon  me,  for  I  am  this  fall  so  running:  over  witli  health  I  feel  as  if  I  oii^lit  to 
go  on,  on  that  account,  workinj;  among  all  who  are  deprived  of  it — and  ( )  how 
jjladly  I  would  bestow  upon  them  a  liberal  share  of  mine,  dear  Abby,  if  such 
a  thiuf^  wi.'re  possible. 

I  am  tontiniially  moving  around  among  the  hospitals.  One  I  go  to  oftencst 
these  last  three  months  is  "  Armory  S(iuare,"  as  it  is  large,  generally  full  of  the 
worst  wounds  and  sickness,  and  is  among  the  least  visited.  To  this  or  some  otiier 
I  never  miss  a  <Iay  or  evening.  Above  all,  the  poor  boys  welcome  simple 
kiu'lness,  loving  affection  (some  are  so  fervent,  so  hungering  for  this) — jujor 
fellows,  how  young  they  are,  lying  there  with  their  pale  faces,  and  that  mute 
look  in  the  eyes.  Oh,  how  one  gels  to  love  them,  often,  particular  cases,  so  suf- 
fering, so  good,  so  manly  anti  yet  simjile.  ,\bby,  you  would  all  smile  to  see  me 
among  them — many  of  them  like  children.  Ceremony  is  (piiie  di.-canied — 
they  suffer  and  get  exhausted  and  so  weary — not  a  few  are  on  their  dying  beds 
— lots  of  tlicm  have  grown  to  expect,  as  I  leave  at  night,  that  we  should  kiss 
each  other,  sometimes  (|uite  a  number ;  I  have  to  go  round.  There  is  little 
pelting  in  a  soldier's  life  in  the  field,  but,  Ai)l)y,  I  know  what  is  in  their  hearts, 
always  waiting,  though  they  may  be  unconscious  of  it  themselves. 

I  have  a  place  where  I  buy  very  nice  home-marle  biscuits,  sweet  crackers, 
etc.  Among  others,  one  of  my  ways  is  to  get  a  good  lot  of  these,  and  for  supper, 
go  through  a  couple  of  wards  and  give  a  portion  to  each  man — next  day  two 
wards  more,  and  so  on.  Then  eacii  marked  case  needs  something  to  itself. 
I  sjK'nd  my  evenings  altogether  at  the  hospitals — my  days  often.  I  give  little 
gifts  of  money  in  small  sums,  which  I  am  enabled  to  do — all  sorts  of  things, 
indeed,  food,  clothing,  letter-stamps  (I  write  lots  of  letters),  now  and  tiien  a 
good  pair  of  crutches  or  a  cane,  etc.  Then  1  read  to  them— the  wiiole  ward 
that  can  walk  gathers  around  me  and  listens. 

All  tiiis  I  tell  you,  my  dear,  because  I  know  it  will  interest  you.  There  is 
much  else — many  exce|)tions — those  I  leave  out.  I  like  Washington  very 
well ;  I  have  three  or  four  hours  my  own  work  every  day  copying,  and  in 
writing  letters  for  the  press,  etc.;  make  enough  to  pay  my  way — live  in  an 
inexpensive  manner  anyhow.  I  like  the  mission  I  am  at  here,  and  as  it  is 
deeply  holding  me  I  shall  continue. 

[On  a  second sheet'\  October  15. 

Well,  Abby,  I  will  send  you  enough  to  make  up  lost  time.  I  ought  to  have 
finished  and  sent  off  the  letter  last  Sunday,  when  it  was  written.  I  have  been 
unusually  busy.  We  are  having  new  arrivals  of  wounded  and  sick  now  all 
the  time— some  very  bad  cases.  I  have  found  some  good  friends  here,  a  few, 
hut  true  as  steel— W.  D.  O'C.  and  wife  above  all  .he  rest.  He  is  a  clerk  in 
the  Treasury— bhe  is  a  Yankee  girl.     Then  C.  W.  E.  in  Paymaster's  Depart- 


40  IVtf//  ]\'/tittH(in. 

lucnt.     Ho  is  a  Boston  l)oy,  too— tlicir  friendship  and  assistance  have  been 
un^wcrviiiy. 

In  the  hospital  amonft  tlicse  American  soldiers  from  East  and  West,  North 
and  Smith,  I  could  noi  <lcscril)c  to  yoii  what  rnntual  attacliniLnts,  jiassinjr 
deep  and  tender.  Some  have  dieii,  but  tlie  love  for  them  lives  as  lony  as  I 
draw  iireath.  These  soldiers  know  how  to  love  too,  when  once  they  have  tlie 
rijjlit  person.  It  is  wonderful.  V'ou  see  I  am  running  olf  into  the  clouds  i  |)er- 
ha])s  my  element).  Ai)l)y,  I  am  writinj^  this  last  note  this  afternoon  in  Major 
II.'s  otfiee— he  is  away  sick — I  am  liere  a  jjood  deal  of  tlie  time  alone — it  is 
a  dark,  rainy  afternoon — we  tlon't  know  what  is  f;oinjj  on  down  in  fronti 
wiiether  Meade  is  {^ettin^'  the  worst  of  it,  or  not— (but  the  result  of  the  \)\g 
elections  permanently  cheers  us) — I  believe  fully  in  Lincoln — few  know  the 
rocks  and  (juicksands  he  has  to  steer  throuj^h  and  over.  I  inclose  you  a  note 
Mrs.  ()'('.  handed  me  to  send  you,  written,  I  suppose,  upon  impulse.  She  is 
a  noble  Massachusetts  woman,  is  not  very  rugLjed  in  health — I  am  there  very 
nnich — her  husband  and  I  are  great  friends.  Weil,  I  must  close — the  rain  is 
poiirintr,  the  sky  leaden,  it  is  between  2  and  3 — I  am  s^oinj,'  »o  j^jCt  some  dinner 
and  then  to  the  hospital,     (jood-by,  dear  friends;  I  send  my  love  to  all. 

W.  W. 

Tliree  unflinching  years  of  work  in  that  terrible  suspense  and 
excitement  of  i(S62-'5  changed  Walt  Whitman  from  a  young  to 
an  old  man.  Under  the  constant  and  intense  moral  strain  to 
which  he  was  subjected  (indicated  in  "A  March  in  the  Ranks 
Hard-press'd,"  and  especially  in  "The  Wound-Dresser,"  in 
**  Drum  Taps"),  he  eventually  broke  down.  The  doctors  called 
his  complaint  "hospital  malaria,"  and  perhaps  it  was;  but  that 
splendid  physique  was  sapped  by  labor,  watching,  and  still 
more  by  the  emotions,  dreads,  deaths,  uncertainties  of  three  years, 
before  it  was  possible  for  hospital  malaria  or  any  similar  cause  to 
overcome  it.  This  illness  (the  first  he  ever  had  in  his  life)  in  the 
hot  summer  of  1864,  he  never  entirely  recovered  from — and  never 
will.  He  went  North  for  a  short  time,  and  after  getting  appar- 
ently better,  returned  to  his  hospital  work. 

Some  time  before  the  close  of  the  war,  he  was  appointed 
to  a  clerkship  in  the  Department  of  the  Interior ;  but  was  shortly 
afterwards  discharged  by  a  new  Secretary,  Hon.  James  Harlan, 
"because  he  was  the  author  of  an  indecent  book'^  He  was  im- 
mediately given  an  equally  good  place  (secured  through 
the  good  offices  of  W.  D.  O'Connor  and  J.  Hubley  Ashton)  in 


A /I  Occurrence  in   1865.  4 1 

fhc  office  of  Attorney-General  James  Speed.  That  dismissal 
l.rouj^htoiit  the  pamphlet  (to  I)e  given  presL'titly)  called  "Tlicdood 
dray  l*oet,"  which  was  adjudged  at  the  time  by  Henry  J.  Ray- 
mond to  be  the  most  brilliant  monogram  in  American  literature. 
It  is  worth  while  to  put  on  record  here  a  brief  memorandum  of 
this  dismissal.  Walt  Whitman  at  the  period  was  dividing  all 
h  ■;  sjiare  time  between  visits  to  the  wounded  and  sick  still  left  in 
several  army  hospitals  at  Washington,  and  composing  the  poem 
"When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  lUoom'd."  The  morning 
after  he  was  dismissed,  his  friend,  Mr.  Ashton,  (who  had  himself 
sat  in  the  President's  Cabinet,  and  who  occupied  a  national  legal 
])C)sition),  drove  down  to  the  Patent  Office  and  had  a  long  inter- 
view wiih  Secretary  Harlan  on  the  subject  of  the  dismissal.  The 
Assistant  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  Juilge  Otto,  was  present,  but 
touk  no  part  in  the  discussion.  Mr.  A.  asked  why  Whitman  was 
dismissed,  whether  he  had  been  found  inattentive  to  his  duties  or 
incompetent  for  them.  Mr.  Harlan  said  No,  there  was  no  com- 
plaint on  those  points;  as  far  as  he  knew,  W.  v^^as  a  competent 
and  faithful  clerk.  Mr.  A.  said,  "Then  what  is  the  reason?" 
Mr.  Harlan  answered,  *'  Whitman  is  the  author  of  Leaves  of 
Grass.''  Mr.  A.  said,  "Is  ihut  the  reason?"  The  Secretary 
said,  "Yes,  it  is" — and  then  made  a  statement  essentially  to  the 
following  purport:  He  was  exploring  the  Department  after  office 
hours,  and  in  one  of  the  rooms  he  found  Leaves  of  Grass.  He 
took  it  up  and  thought  it  so  odd,  that  he  carried  it  to  his  own 
office  awhile,  and  examined  it.  There  were  marks  by  or  upon 
the  pieces  all  through  the  book.  He  found  in  some  of  these 
marked  passages  matter  so  outrageous  that  he  determined  to  dis- 
charge the  writer,  etc.  Mr.  A.  responded  by  a  brief  statement 
of  the  theory  of  Leaves  of  Grass — that  any  bad  construction  put 
upon  the  passages  alluded  to  was  not  warranted  either  by  the 
actual  principle  of  the  poems  or  the  intentions  of  the  author. 
Mr.  Harlan  said  he  couldn't  help  that— the  author  oi  Leaves  of 
Grass  was  a  free  lover,  etc.  Mr.  A.  said,  "  Mr.  Harlan,  I  /:/io:e/ 
Walt  Whitman  personally  and  well,  and  if  you  will  listen  to  me, 
I  will  tell  you  what  his  life  has  been  and  is."  He  then  went  on 
with  quite  a  long  narrative.     Mr.  Harlan  finally  said,  "You  have 

4 


42  Wa/t  Whitman. 

changed  my  opinion  of  Mr.  Whitman's  personal  character;  but 
I  shall  adhere  to  my  decision  dismissing  him."  Mr.  A.  com- 
menced some  further  remarks,  when  Mr.  Harlan  summarily  said, 
*'  It's  no  use,  Mr.  A.,  1  will  not  have  the  man  who  wrote  Leaves 
of  Grass  in  this  Department,  if  the  President  himself  were  to 
order  his  reinstatement.  I  would  resign  myself  sooner  than  put 
him  back."  Mr.  Harlan  then  broke  into  a  long  and  vehement 
tiratle  against  the  book  and  its  writer,  to  which  Mr.  A.  made  no 
reply,  but  bowed  and  touk  his  leave. 

The  following  transient  incidents  and  sketches  of  the  man  as 
he  actually  api)eared  on  the  streets  of  Washington  from  1864  to 
'72,  were  jotted  down  at  the  time  and  on  the  spot : 

An  eye-witness  and  participator  relates,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  the  following 
anecdote  of  Abraliam  Lincoln :  It  was  in  the  winter-time,  I  thinlc  in  '64,  I 
went  up  to  the  White  House  with  a  friend  of  mine,  an  M.  C,  who  had  some 
business  with  the  President.  He  had  gone  out, so  we  didn't  stop;  but  coming 
down  stairs,  quite  near  the  door,  we  met  the  President  coming  in,  and  we  stept 
>ack  into  the  East  Room,  and  stood  near  the  front  windows,  where  my  friend 
had  a  confab  with  him.  It  didn't  last  more  than  three  or  four  minutes;  but 
there  was  something  about  a  letter  which  my  friend  had  handed  the  President, 
and  Mr.  Lincoln  had  read  it,  and  was  holding  it  in  his  hand  thinking  it  over, 
and  looking  out  of  the  window,  when  Walt  Whitman  went  by,  on  the  Wiiite 
House  walk  in  front,  (juile  slow,  witli  his  hands  in  the  breast-pockets  of  his 
overcoat,  and  a  sizeable  felt  hat  on,  and  his  head  pretty  well  up,  just  as  I  have 
often  seen  him  on  Broad'.i-ay.  Mr.  Lincoln  asked  who  that  was,  or  something 
of  the  kind.  I  spoke  up,  mentioning  the  name,  Walt  Whitman,  and  said  he 
was  the  author  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  Mr.  Lincoln  didn't  say  anytiiing,  but 
took  a  good  look,  till  Whitman  was  quite  gone  by.  Then  he  says — (I  can't 
give  you  his  way  of  saying  it,  but  it  was  quite  emphatic  and  odd) — "  W^ell," 
he  says,  *'  he  looks  like  a  Man."  He  said  it  pretty  loud,  but  in  a  sort  of  ab- 
sent way,  and  with  the  emphasis  on  the  words  I  iiave  underscored.  He  didn't 
say  any  more,  but  began  to  talk  again  about  the  letter ;  and  in  a  minute  or  so 
we  went  off. 

From  Burroughs'' s  "Birds  and  Poets. " 

I  give  here  a  glimpse  of  him  in  Washington  on  a  Pennsylvania  Avenue 
and  Navy  Yard  horse-car,  toward  the  close  of  the  war,  one  summer  day  at 
sundown.  The  car  is  crowded  and  suffocatingly  hot,  with  many  passengers 
on  tlie  rear  platform,  and  among  them  a  bearded,  florid-faced  man,  elderly 
but  agile,  resting  against  the  dash,  by  the  side  of  the  young  conductor,  and 


Portraits  at  the  Time — \^6\-y2,  43 

evidently  his  intimate  friend.  The  man  wears  a  broad-brim  white  hat  Among 
the  jam  inside-,  near  the  doDr,  a  younj,'  Kn:,di.-,hwoman.  of  tlie  worldn.u;  class, 
V.  ith  two  cliildren,  has  had  trouble  all  the  way  with  the  youngest,  a  .strong, 
f\t,  fretful,  bright  babe  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  months,  who  bids  fair  to 
worry  the  mother  completely  out,  besides  becoming  a  howling  nuisance  to 
everybody.  As  the  car  tugs  around  Capitol  Hill  the  young  one  is  more 
demoniac  than  ever,  and  the  fluNhed  and  perspiring  mother  is  just  ready  to 
burst  into  tears  with  weariness  and  vexation.  The  car  stops  at  the  top  of 
the  hill  to  let  off  most  of  the  rear  platform  passengers,  and  the  white- 
hatted  niL'n  reaches  inside  and  gently  but  firmly  disengaging  the  babe  from 
its  .stilling  place  in  the  mother's  arms,  takes  it  in  his  own,  and  out  in  the 
air.  The  ..stonished  and  excited  child,  partly  in  fear,  partly  in  satisfaction  at 
the  change,  stops  its  screaming,  and  as  the  man  adjusts  it  more  securely  to  his 
breast,  plants  its  chubby  hands  against  him,  and  pushing  off  as  far  as  it  can, 
gives  a  good  long  look  squarely  in  his  face ;  then,  as  if  satisfied,  snuggles  down 
with  its  head  on  his  neck,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  is  sound  and  peacefully 
asleep  without  another  w  lumper,  utterly  fagged  out.  A  square  or  so  more, 
and  the  conductor,  who  has  had  an  unusually  hard  and  uninterrupted  day's 
work,  gets  off  for  his  first  meal  and  relief  since  morning.  And  now  the  white- 
hatted  man,  holding  the  slumbering  babe  also,  acts  as  conductor  the  rest  of  the 
distance,  keeping  his  eye  on  the  passengers  inside,  who  have  by  this  time 
thinned  out  greatly.  He  makes  a  very  good  conductor,  too,  pulling  the  bell  to 
stop  or  go  on  as  needed,  and  seems  to  enjoy  the  occupation.  The  babe  mean- 
wliilo  re^ts  its  fat  cheeks  close  on  his  neck  and  gray  beard,  one  of  his  arms 
vigilantly  surrounding  it,  while  the  other  signals,  from  time  to  time,  with  the 
strap ;  and  the  flushed  mother  inside  has  a  good  half-hour  to  breathe,  and 
cool,  and  recover  herself. 

From  the  Washington  "Chronicle,"  May  gth,  i86g. 
On  rennsylvania  Avenue  or  Seventh  or  Fourteenth  Street,  or  perhaps  of  a 
Sunday  along  the  suburban  road  toward  Rock  Creek,  or  across  on  Arlington 
Heights,  or  up  the  shores  of  the  Potomac,  you  will  meet  moving  along  at  a 
turn  !)ut  moderate  pace,  a  robust  figure,  six  feet  high,  costumed  in  blue  or  gray, 
\yith  drab  hat,  broad  shirt  collar,  gray-white  beard,  full  and  curly,  with  face 
like  a  red  apple,  blue  eyes,  and  a  look  of  animal  health  more  indicative  of 
hunting  or  boating  than  the  department  office  or  author's  desk.  Indeed,  the 
subject  of  our  item,  in  his  verse,  his  manners,  and  even  in  his  philosophy,  evi- 
dently draws  from,  and  has  reference  to,  the  influences  of  sea  and  sky,  and 
woods  and  prairies,  with  their  laws,  and  man  in  his  relations  to  them,  while 
neither  the  conventional  parlor  nor  library  has  cast  its  spells  upon  him. 

From  the  New  York  "Evming  Mail;'  Oct.  27///,  1870. 
The  papers  here  have  all  paragraphed  Walt  Whitman's  return  to  town  and 
to  his  desk  in  the  Attorney-General's  office,  after  quite  a  long  vacation.     His 


44  ^^^^^  Whitjnan. 

fif^urc  is  daily  to  be  seen  here  mnvintT  around  in  the  open  air,  especially  fine 
moriiin^js  ami  cvinini^s,  oij-^urviny,  li^tciiiny  to,  ors(icial)ly  talking'  vitli  all  sorts 
of  puDpk',  policciiicu,  drivers,  market  men,  old  women,  the  lilacks,  or  digni- 
taries; or  perhaps,  giving  some  small  alms  to  beggars,  the  maimed,  or  organ- 
grinders;  or  stopping  to  caress  little  children,  of  whom  he  is  very  fond.  He 
takes  deep  interest  in  all  the  news,  foreign  and  domestic.  At  the  commence, 
ment  of  the  present  war  in  Europe  he  was  strongly  German,  but  hi  now  the 
ardent  friend  of  the  French,  and  enthusiastically  supports  them  and  their 
Republic.  Here  at  home  he  goes  for  general  amnesty  and  oblivion  to  Seces- 
sionists. He  speaks  shaijjly  of  the  tendency  of  the  Republican  party  to  con- 
centrate all  power  in  Congress,  and  make  its  legislation  abs(dutely  sovereign, 
as  against  the  equal  claims,  in  their  spheres,  of  the  Presidency,  the  Judiciary, 
and  the  single  States. 

Altogether,  perhaps,  "the  good,  gray  poet"  is  rightly  located  here.  Our 
wide  spaces,  great  etlifices,  the  breadth  of  our  landscape,  the  ample  vistas,  the 
splendor  of  our  skies,  night  and  day,  with  the  national  character,  the  memo- 
ries of  Washington  and  Lincoln,  and  others  that  might  be  named,  make  our 
city,  above  all  others,  the  one  where  he  fitly  belongs. 

Walt  Whitman  is  now  in  his  fifty-second  year,  hearty  and  blooming,  tall, 
with  white  beard  and  long  hair.  The  older  he  gets  the  more  cheerful  and 
gay-hearted  he  grows. 

Frotn  a  letter  in  Burroughs' s  "N'otes,^^  A'oii.  2Sth,  1S70, 

....  You  ask  for  some  particulars  of  my  friend  Whitman.  You  know  I 
first  fell  in  with  him  years  ago  in  the  army.  We  then  lived  awhile  in  the  same 
t(-nt,  and  now  \  occupy  the  adjoining  room  to  his,  I  can,  therefore,  gratify 
your  curiosity.  He  is  a  large-looking  man.  Wiiilc  in  the  market  the  other  day 
with  a  party  of  us,  we  were  all  weighed  ;  his  weight  was  200  pounds.  But  I 
will  just  start  with  him  like  with  the  day.  He  is  fond  of  the  sun,  and  at  this 
season,  soon  as  it  is  well  up,  shining  in  his  room,  he  is  out  in  its  beams  for  a 
cold-water  bath  with  hand  and  sponge,  after  a  brisk  use  of  the  flesh-ljrush. 
Then  blithely  singing — his  singing  often  pleasantly  wakes  me — he  proceeds  to 
finish  his  toilet,  about  which  he  is  (juite  particular.  Then  forth  for  a  walk  in 
the  open  air,  or  perhaps  some  short  exercise  in  the  gymnasium.  Then  to  break- 
fast— no  sipping  and  nibbling — he  demolishes  meat,  eggs,  rolls,  toast,  roast 
potatoes,  coffee,  buckwheat  cakes,  at  a  terrible  rate  Then  walking  moder- 
ately to  his  desk  in  the  Attoriiey-Generars  oftice — a  pleasant  desk,  with  large 
south  window  at  his  left,  looking  away  down  the  Potomac,  and  across  to 
Virginia  on  one  side. 

He  is  at  present  in  first-rate  bodily  health.  Of  his  mind  you  must  judge 
from  his  writi  igs,  as  I  have  sent  them  to  you.  He  is  not  what  is  called  cere- 
monious or  polite,  but  I  have  noticed  invarial)ly  kind  and  tolerant  with  chil- 
dren, servants,  laborers,  and  the  illiterate.    He  gives  freely  to  the  poor,  accord- 


18/3 — ^  Paralytic  stroke.  45 

ini;  lo  his  means.  He  can  he  freezinf,'  in  manner,  and  knows  how  to  fend  off 
1hjil>.  Sonutiines  lie  and  I  only — soniL'timcs  a  larger  party  of  us — j^o  off  on 
ramMes  of  several  mi'esoiil  in  llie  country,  or  over  the  hills;  somelinie.s  we  go 
niglils,  when  the  moon  is  line.  On  such  occasions  he  conlrilniles  his  part  to 
tile  i^eneral  fun.  Vou  might  hear  his  voice,  half  in  sport,  declamiing  some 
jia-snge  from  a  poem  or  play,  and  his  song  or  lauj^h  about  as  often  as  any, 
sounding  in  the  open  air. 

Walt  Whitman  continued  to  live  in  Washington  until  1873. 
He  had  toward  the  la.st  a  salary  of  $1600  a  year.  He  exercised 
the  strictest  economy,  almost  parsimony,  in  his  own  personal 
living,  spending  probably  less  than  a  quarter  of  his  income  upon 
himself,  putting  by  about  one-third  of  the  remainder,  and  using 
the  rest,  first  for  a  dear  relative  at  home,  and  then  for  needy  per- 
sons and  the  inmates  of  the  army  hospitals,  his  visits  to  which  he 
conti:iued  as  long  as  they  remained  in  the  Cai)ital.  He  always 
looked  well,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  time  felt  well,  but  his 
health  was  never  at  the  stage  of  perfection  and  unconsciousness 
it  had  been  before  his  illness  in  1864,  and  he  suffered  occasional 
attac  ks  of  actual  and  sometimes  severe  sickness. 

This  condition  of  dejjressed  vitality  culminated  in  a  para- 
lytic seizure.  He  told  me  (one  day  in  1880)  how  it  came  on, 
almost  or  exactly  in  the  following  words:  "On  the  night  of 
"the  22d  of  February,  1873,  ^  was  in  the  Treasury  building  in 
"  Wa^.hington  ;  outside  it  was  raining,  sleeting,  and  quite  cold 
"and  dark.  The  office  was  comfortable,  and  I  had  a  good  fire. 
"I  was  lazily  reading  Bulwer's  'What  Will  He  Do  With  It?' 
"  but  I  did  not  feel  well,  and  put  aside  the  book  several  times. 
"I  remained  at  the  office  until  pretty  late.  My  lodging-room 
"was  about  a  hundred  yards  down  the  street.  At  last  I  got  up 
"to  go  home.  At  the  door  of  the  Treasury  one  of  the  friendly 
"group  of  guards  asked  me  what  ailed  me,  and  said  I  looked 
"quite  ill.  He  proposed  to  let  a  man  take  his  place  while  he 
"would  convoy  me  home.  I  said,  No,  I  can  go  v/ell  enough. 
"  He  again  said  he  would  go  with  me,  but  I  again  declined. 
"Then  he  went  down  the  steps  and  stood  at  the  door  with  his 
"  lantern  until  I  reached  the  house  where  I  lived.  I  walked  up 
"to  my  room  and  went  to  bed  and  to  sleep—woke  up  about 


46  IVa/i  Whitman. 

"tlircc  or  four  o'clock  and  found  that  I  could  not  move  my  left 
"arm  or  leg — did  not  feel  i)articulaily  uneasy  about  it — was  in 
**  no  pain  and  even  did  not  seem  to  be  very  ill — thought  it  would 
"  pass  off — went  to  sleep  again  and  slept  until  da}light.  Then, 
"however,!  found  that  I  could  not  get  up — could  not  move. 
"After  several  hours,  some  friends  came  in,  and  they  immedi- 
"ately  sent  for  a  doctor — U  '.-tunately  a  very  good  one,  Dr.  W. 
"B.  Drinkard.  He  looked  very  grave — thought  my  condition 
"  markedly  serious.  I  did  not  think  so:  I  supposed  the  attack 
"  would  pass  off  soon — but  it  did  not." 

And  it  never  has  passed  off,  and  never  will,  although  he  has 
regained  the  use  of  his  limbs  to  a  considerable  degree.  This 
first  attack  kept  him  clown  for  over  two  months,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  he  was  growing  perceptibly  better,  when,  on  23d 
May,  the  same  year,  his  mother  died  somewhat  suddenly.  (In 
Camden,  New  Jersey.  He  was  present  at  her  death-bed.)  That 
event  was  a  terrible  blow  to  him,  and  after  its  occurrence  he 
became  much  worse.  He  left  Washington  for  good,  and  took 
up  his  residence  in  Camden. 

And  now  for  several  years,  1873,  '74,  '75,  his  life  hung  upon 
a  thread.  Though  he  suffered  at  times  severely,  he  never  became 
dejected  or  impatient.  It  was  said  by  one  of  his  friends  that  in 
that  combination  of  illness,  poverty,  and  old  age,  Walt  Whitman 
has  been  more  grand  than  in  the  full  vigor  of  his  manhood. 
For  along  with  illness,  pain,  and  the  burden  of  age,  he  soon  had 
to  bear  poverty  also.  A  little  while  after  he  became  incapacitated 
by  illness,  he  was  discharged  from  his  Government  clerkship, 
and  everything  like  an  income  entirely  ceased.  As  to  the  profits 
of  Leaves  of  Grass,  they  had  never  been  much,  and  now  two 
men,  in  succession,  in  New  York  (T.  O'K.  and  C.  P.  S,),  in 
whose  hands  the  sale  of  the  book,  on  commission,  had  been 
placed,  took  advantage  of  his  helplessness  to  embezzle  the 
amounts  due — (they  calculated  that  death  would  soon  settle  tiie 
score  and  rub  it  out).  So  that,  although  I  hardly  ever  heard  liiin 
speak  of  them,  I  know  that  during  those  four  years  Walt  Whitman 
had  to  bear  the  imminent  prospect  of  death,  great  pain  and  suf- 


Illness  of  i874-'5-'6.  47 

fcring  at  times,  poverty,  his  poetic  enterprise  a  failure,  and  the 
fare  of  tlie  public  either  clouded  in  contempt  or  turned  away 
with  indifference.  If  a  man  can  go  through  such  a  trial  as  this 
without  despair  or  misanthropy — if  he  can  maintain  a  good 
heart,  can  preserve  absolute  self-respect,  and  as  absolutely  the 
respect,  love,  and  admiration  of  the  few  who  thoroughly  know 
him — then  he  has  given  proofs  I  should  say  of  personal  heroism 
of  the  first  order.  It  was,  perhaps,  needed  that  Walt  Whitman 
should  afford  such  proofs;  at  all  events  he  has  afforded  them. 
Wiiat  he  was,  how  he  lived,  kept  himself  up  during  those  years, 
and  how  at  the  end  partially  recuperated,  is  so  well  set  forth  by 
himself  in  Specimc7i  Days,  that  it  would  be  mere  impertinence  for 
any  one  else  to  attempt  to  retell  the  tale.  The  illness  his  friends 
looked  upon  with  so  much  dread  has  borne  fruit  in  one  of  the  sanest 
and  sweetest  of  books,  the  brightest  and  halest  "  Diary  of  an  In- 
valid" ever  written — a  book  unique  in  being  the  expression  of 
strength  in  infirmity — the  wisdom  of  weakness — so  bright  and 
translucent,  at  once  of  the  earth,  earthy,  and  spiritual  as  of  the 
sky  and  stars.  Other  books  of  the  invalid's  room  require  to  be 
read  with  the  blinds  drawn  down  and  the  priest  on  the  threshold  ; 
but  this  sick  man's  chamber  is  the  lane,  and  by  the  creek  or 
sea-shore — always  with  the  fresh  air  and  the  open  sky  overhead. 


CIIAITER  ir. 

THE  POET  IN  iSSo.—PERSONVEL,  ETC. 

Tins  cliaptcr  has  been  mninly  written  while  Walt  Whitman 
visited  at  the  house.of  the  writer  in  Canada,  or  while  he  and  I 
were  travelling  together  through  the  Provinces  of  Ontario  or 
Quebec,  or  on  the  Lakes,  or  the  St.  Lawrence  or  Saguenay  Rivers ; 
and  the  greater  part  of  it  while  we  were  in  the  same  room. 

First,  as  to  his  personal  appearance,  noted  at  the  time. 
On  the  31st  of  Maj-,  iS.So,  Walt  Whitman  was  sixty-one  years 
of  age.  At  first  sigiit  he  looked  much  older,  so  that  he  was  often 
supposed  to  be  seventy  or  even  eighty.  He  is  six  feet  in  height, 
and  quite  straight.  He  wciglis  nearly  two  hundred  pounds.  His 
body  and  limbs  are  full-sized  and  well-proportioned.  His  head 
is  large  and  rounded  in  every  direction,  the  top  a  little  higher 
than  a  .semicircle  from  the  front  to  the  back  would  make  it. 
Though  his  face  and  head  give  the  appearance  of  being  [jlenti- 
fuUy  supplied  witli  hair,  the  crown  is  moderately  bald  ;  on  the 
sides  and  back  the  hair  long,  very  fine,  and  nearly  snow-wiiite. 
The  eyebrows  are  highly  arched,  so  that  it  is  a  long  distance 
from  the  eye  to  the  centre  of  the  eyebrow — (this  is  the  facial 
feature  that  strikes  one  most  at  first  sight).  The  eyes  themselves 
are  light  blue,  not  large, — indeed,  in  proportion  to  the  head  and 
face  they  seemed  to  me  rather  small ;  they  are  dull  and  heavy, 
not  expressive — what  expression  they  have  is  kindness,  compo- 
sure, suavity.  The  eyelids  are  full,  the  upper  commonly  droops 
nearly  half  over  the  globe  of  the  eye.  The  nose  is  broad,  strong, 
and  quite  straight ;  it  is  full-sized,  but  not  large  in  proportion  to 
the  rest  of  the  face ;  it  does  not  descend  straight  from  the  fore- 
head, but  dips  down  somewhat  between  the  eyes  with  a  loni; 
sweep.     The  mouth  is  full-sized,  the   lips   full.     The   sides  and 


I^cicc — Senses — Physique.  49 

lower  part  of  the  face  are  covered  with  a  fine  white  beard,  wliich 
is  long  enough  to  come  down  a  little  way  on  the  breast.     The 
iil)l)cr  lip  bears  a  heavy  mustache.     The  ear  is  very  large,  cspe- 
daily  long  from  above  downwards,  heavy,  and  remarkably  hand- 
some.    1  believe  all  the  poet's  senses  are  exceptionally  acute,  his 
hearing  esjiecially  so;    no  sound  or  modulation  of  sound  per- 
ceptible  to  others  escapes  him,  and  he  seems  to  hear  many  things 
that  to  ordinary  folk  are  inaudible.     I  have  heard  him  speak  of 
hearing  the  grass  grow  and  the  trees  coming  out  in  leaf.     In  the 
"Song  of  Myself"  he  mentions  the  "bustle  of  growing  wheat." 
And  as  to  scent,  he  says  in  Specimen  Days,  "  There  is  a  scent  in 
everything,  even  the  snow;  no  two  places,  hardly  any  two  hours, 
anywhere,  exactly  alike.     How  different  the  odor  of  noon  from 
midnight,  winter  from  summer,   or  a  windy  spell  from  a  still 
one."     His  cheeks  are  round  and  smooth.    His  face  had  no  lines 
that  expressed  care,  or  weariness,  or  age— it  was  the  white  hair 
and  beard,  and  his  feebleness  in  walking  (due  to  the  paralysis) 
that  made  him  ai>])ear  old.     The  habitual  expression  of  his  face 
is  repose,  but  there  is  a  well-marked  firmness  and  decision.     I 
have   never  seen   his   look,   even    momentarily,    express    con- 
tempt, or  any  vicious  feeling.     I  have  never  known  him  to  sneer 
at  any  person  or  thing,  or  to  manifest  in  any  way  or  degree  either 
alarm  or  apprehension,  though   he   has  in   my  presence   been 
placed  in  circumstances  that  would  have  caused  both  in  most  men. 
His  complexion  is  peculiar,  a  bright  maroon  tint,  which,  con- 
trasting with  his  white  hair  and  beard,  makes  an  impression  very 
striking.     His  body  is  not  white  like  that  of  all  others  whom  I 
have  seen  of  the  English  or  Teutonic  stock— it  is  a  delicate  but 
well-marked  rose-color.     All  his  features  are  large  and  massive, 
but  so  proportioned  as  not  to  look  heavy.    His  face  is  the  noblest 
I  iiave  ever  seen. 

No  description  can  give  any  idea  of  the  extraordinary  physical 
attractiveness  of  the  man.  I  do  not  speak  now  of  the  affection 
of  friends  and  of  those  who  are  much  with  him,  but  of  the  mag- 
netism exercised  by  him  upon  people  who  merely  see  him  for  a 
few  ninutes  or  pass  him  on  the  street.  An  intimate  friend  of 
the  author's,  after  knowing  Walt  Whitman  a  few  days,  said  in  a 

5 


50  U'd//  Whir  num. 

letter:  "As  for  myself,  it  seems  to  me  now  that  I  have  always 
known  him  and  loved  him."  And  in  another  letter,  written 
from  a  town  where  the  poet  had  been  staying  for  a  few  days,  the 
same  person  says:  "Do  you  know,  every  one  wlio  met  him  here 
seems  to  love  him." 

The  following  is  the  experience  of  a  person  well  known  to  the 
present  writer.  He  called  on  Walt  Whitman  and  spent  an  hour 
at  his  home  in  Camden,  in  the  autumn  of  1877.  He  had  never 
seen  the  poet  before,  but  he  had  been  profoundly  reading  his 
works  for  some  years.  He  said  that  Walt  Whitman  only  spoke 
to  him  about  a  hundred  words  altogether,  and  these  quite  ordi- 
nary and  commonplace  ;  that  he  did  not  realize  anything  i)e(  uliar 
wliile  with  him,  but  shortly  after  leaving  a  state  of  mental  exalta- 
tion set  in,  which  he  could  only  describe  by  comparing  to 
slight  intoxication  by  champagne,  or  to  falling  in  love  I  And 
this  exaltation,  he  said,  lasted  at  least  six  weeks  in  a  clearly 
marked  degree,  so  that,  for  at  least  that  length  of  time,  he  was 
plainly  different  from  his  ordinary  self.  Neither,  he  said,  did  it 
then  or  since  pass  away,  though  it  ceased  to  be  felt  as  something 
new  and  strange,  but  became  a  permanent  element  in  his  life,  a 
strong  and  living  force  (as  he  described  it),  making  for  purity  and 
happiness.  I  may  add  that  this  person's  whole  life  has  been 
changed  by  that  contact  (no  doubt  the  previous  reading  of  Leaves 
of  Grass  also),  his  temper,  character,  entire  spiritual  being,  outer 
life,  conversation,  etc.,  elevated  and  purified  in  an  extraordinary 
degree.  He  tells  me  that  at  first  he  used  often  to  speak  to  friends 
and  acquaintances  of  his  feeling  for  Walt  Whitman  and  the 
Leaves,  but  after  a  time  he  found  that  he  could  not  make  himself 
understood,  and  that  some  even  thought  his  mental  balance  im- 
paired. He  gradually  learned  to  keep  silence  upon  the  subject, 
but  the  feeling  did  not  abate,  nor  its  influence  upon  his  life  grow 
less. 

Walt  Whitman's  dress  was  always  extremely  plain.  He  usually 
wore  in  pleasant  weather  a  light-gray  suit  of  good  woollen  cloth. 
The  only  thing  peculiar  about  his  dress  was  that  he  had  no  neck- 
tie at  any  time,  and  always  wore  shirts  with  very  large  turn- 
down  collars,  the  button  at  the  neck  some  five  or  six  inches 


Drcss^Idcal  of  Ufc— Temper.  51 

lower  than  usual,  so  that  the  throat  and  upper  part  of  the  breast 

were  cx|)osod.     \\\  all  other  respects  he  dressed  in  a  substantial, 

neat,  plain,  common  way.     Everything  he  wore,  ami  everything 

about  him,  was  always  scruiiulously  clean.     His  clothes   might 

(and  often  did)  show  signs  of  wear,  or  they  might  be  torn  or  have 

holes  worn  in  them  ;  but  they  never  looked  soiled.     Indeed,  an 

exquisite  aroma  of  cleanliness  has  always  been  one  of  the  special 

features  of  the  man  ;  it  has  always  belonged  to  his  clothes,  his 

breath,  his  whole  body,  his  eating  and  drinking,  his  conversation, 

and  no  one  could  know  him  for  an  hour  without  seeing  that  it 

penetrated  his  mind  and  life,  and  was  in  fact  the  expression  of  a 

purity  which  was  physical  as  much  as  moral,  and  moral  as  much 

as  phybical. 

Walt  Whitman,  in  my  talks  with  him  at  that  time,  always  dis- 
claimed any  lofty  intention  in  himself  or  his  poems.     If  you 
accepted  his  cxjjlanations  they  were  simple  and  commonplace. 
But  when  you  came  to  think  about  these  explanations,  and  to 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  them,  you  found  that  the  simple  and  com- 
monplace with  him  included  the  ideal  and  the  spiritual.      So  it 
may  be  said  that  neither  he  nor  his  writings  are  growths  of  the 
ideal  from  the  real,  but  are  the  actual  real  lifted  up  into  the  ideal. 
With  Walt  Whitman,  his   body,  his  outward   life,  his   inward 
spiritual  existence  and  his  poetry,  were  all  one  ;  in  every  respect 
each  tallied  the  other,  and  any  one  of  them  could  always  be  in- 
ferred from  any  other.     He  said  to  me  one  day  (I  forget  now  in 
what  connection),  "  I  have  imagined  a  life  which  should  be  that 
"of  the  average  man  in  average  circumstances,  and  still  grand, 
"heroic."     There  is  no  doubt  that  such  an  ideal  has  been  con- 
stantly before  his  mind,  and  that  all  he  has  done,  said,  written, 
thought  and  felt,  have  been  and  are,  from  moment  to  moment, 
moulded  upon  it.  His  manner  is  curiouslycalm  and  self-contained. 
He  seldom  becomes  excited  in  conversation,  or  at  all  events  sel- 
dom shows  excitement ;  he  rarely  raises  his  voice  or  uses  any  ges- 
tures.    I  never  knew  him  to  be  in  a  bad  temper.     He  seemed 
always  pleased  with  those  about  him.     He  did  not  generally  wait 
for  a  formal  introduction;  upon  meeting  any  person  for  the  first 


52  IVa/i  Whitiiian. 

time,  he  very  likely  stepped  forward,  held  out  his  hand  (either  left 
or  right  whichever  hapj^ened  to  be  disengaged),  and  the  person 
and  he  were  acquainted  at  once.  People  could  not  tell  why  they 
liked  him,  they  said  there  was  "something  attractive  about  him," 
that  he  "  had  a  great  deal  of  personal  magnetism,"  or  made  some 
other  vague  explanation  that  meant  nothing.  One  very  clever 
musical  person,  who  spent  a  couple  of  days  in  my  house  while 
Walt  Whitman  was  there,  said  to  me  on  going  away,  "  I  know 
what  it  is,  it  is  his  wonderful  voice  that  makes  it  so  pleasant  to  be 
with  him."  I  said,  "Yes,  pe-haps  it  is,  but  where  did  his  voice 
get  that  charm?  " 

Though  he  would  sometimes  not  touch  a  book  for  a  week,  he 
generally  spent  a  part  (though  not  a  large  part)  of  each  day  in 
reading.  Perhaps  he  would  read  on  an  average  a  couple  of  hours 
a  day.  He  seldom  read  any  book  deliberately  through,  and 
there  was  no  more  apparent  system  about  his  reading  than  in 
anything  else  that  he  did,  that  is  to  say  there  was  no  system 
about  it  at:  all.  If  he  sat  in  the  library  an  hour,  he  would  have 
half  a  dozen  to  a  dozen  volumes  about  him,  on  the  table,  on 
chairs  and  on  the  floor.  He  seemed  to  read  a  few  pages  here 
and  a  iasv  chere,  and  pass  from  place  to  plaCv%  from  volume  to 
volume, doubtless  pursuing  some  clue  or  thread  of  his  own.  Some- 
times (though  very  seldom)  he  would  get  sufficiently  interested 
in  a  volume  to  read  it  all.  I  think  he  read  almost  if  not  quite 
the  whole  of  Rcnouf's  "  Egypt,"  and  Brusch-bey's  *''  Egypt,"  but 
these  cases  were  exceptional.  In  his  way  of  reading  he  dipped 
into  histories,  essays,  metaphysical,  religious  and  scientific  trea- 
tises, novels  and  poetry  (though  I  think  he  read  less  poetry  than 
anything  else).  He  read  no  language  but  English,  yet  I  believe 
he  knew  a  great  deal  more  French,  German  and  Spanish,  than 
he  would  own  to.  But  if  you  took  his  own  word  for  it,  he  knew 
very  little  indeed  on  any  subject. 

His  favorite  occupation  seemed  to  be  strolling  or  sauntering  about 
outdoors  by  himself,  looking  at  the  grass,  the  trees,  the  flowers, 
the  vistas  of  light,  the  varying  aspects  of  the  sky,  and  listening 
to  the  birds,  the  crickets,  the  tree-frogs,  the  wind  in  the  trees, 
and  all  the  hundreds  of  natural  sounds  and  shows.    It  was  evident 


Singing — Reciting  Poetry.  53 

that  these  things  gave  him  a  pleasure  that  ordinary  people  never 
experience.  Until  I  knew  the  man,  it  had  not  occurred  tome 
(thougli  I  am  moderately  fond  of  outdoor  life  myself  and  have 
read  what  most  of  the  poets  say  on  the  subject)  that  any  one 
could  derive  so  much  absolute  happiness  and  ample  fulfdment 
from  these  things,  as  he  evidently  did.  He  himself  never  spoke 
of  all  this  pleasure.  I  dare  say  he  hardly  thought  of  it,  but  any 
one  who  watched  him  could  see  plainly  that  in  his  case  it  was 
real  and  deep. 

He  had  a  way  of  singing,  generally  in  an  undertone,  wherever 
he  was  or  whatever  he  was  doing  when  alone.  You  would  hear 
him  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  while  he  was  taking  his  bath  and 
dressing  (he  would  then  perhaps  sing  out  in  full,  ballads  or  martial 
songs),  and  a  large  part  of  the  time  that  he  sauntered  outdoors 
during  the  day  he  sang,  usually  tunes  without  words,  or  a  formless 
recitative.  Sometimes  he  would  recite  poetry,  generally  I  think 
from  Shakespeare  or  Homer,  once  in  a  while  from  Bryant  or 
others.  His  way  of  rendering  poetry  was  peculiar  but  effective. 
I  remember  the  '*  Midnight  Visitor"  from  the  French  poet 
Murger,  also  Tennyson's  "  Ulysses,"  and  Schiller's  *'  Diver."  * 


*A  letter  from  Camden,  in  the  "Springfield  Repnblican,"  July  23,  1875,  says:  The 
Camden  mechanics  and  yonnt,'  men  have  a  (lourishing  literary  society  here,  called  the  "  Walt 
Whitman  t!lub  ;  "  and  some  weeks  since,  thcj  ;;ave  a  musical  and  other  enterlairnient  for  the 
benefit  of  the  poor  fund,  at  which  Whitman  readily  appeared  as  reader  of  one  of  his  own 
poems.  'J'here  was  a  crowded  house,  the  report  in  the  local  paper  saying,  "  Probably  tlie 
best  part  of  the  audience  drawn  to  the  entertainment  by  a  mixture  of  wonder  and  uncertainty 
what  sort  of  a  being  Walt  Whitman  really  was,  and  what  sort  of  a  thing  one  of  his  poems 
might  prove  to  be."  The  report  goes  on  to  give  the  following  account  of  his  appe.irance  and 
reading:  A  large,  lame  old  man,  si.<  teet  tall,  dressed  in  a  complete  suit  of  English  gray, 
hobbled  slowly  out  to  view,  with  the  assistance  of  a  stout  buckthorn  staff.  Though  Ul  from 
paralysis,  the  clear  blue  eyes,  complexion  of  transparent  red,  and  fulness  of  figure  so  well 
known  to  many  New  Yorkers  and  Washingtonians  of  the  past  15  years,  and  in  Camden  and 
Philadelphia  of  late,  all  remain  about  the  same.  With  his  snowy  hair  and  fleecy  beard,  and 
in  a  manner  which  singularly  combined  strong  emphasis  with  the  very  realization  of  self- 
composure,  simplicity  and  ease,  Mr.  Whitman,  for  it  was  he  (though  he  might  be  taken  at 
first  sight  for  75  or  80,  he  is  in  fact  not  yet  57),  proceeded  to  read,  sitting,  his  poem  of  the 
"Mystic  Trumpeter."  Mis  voice  is  firm,  magnetic,  and  with  a  certain  peculiar  quality  we 
heard  an  admiring  auditor  call  unaffectedness.  Its  range  is  baritone,  merging  into  bass.  He 
reads  very  leisurely,  makes  frequent  pauses  or  gaps,  enunciates  with  distinctness,  and  uses 
few  gestures,  but  those  very  significant.  Is  he  eloquent  and  dramatic?  No,  not  in  the  con- 
ventional sense,  as  illustrated  by  the  best  known  stars  of  the  pulpit,  c(jurt-room,  or  the  stage 
—for  the  bent  of  his  reading,  in  fact  the  whole  idea  of  it,  is  evidently  to  first  form  an 
enormous  mental  fund,  as  it  were,  within  the  regions  of  the  chest,  and  he.arl,  and  lungs— a 


54  ^Vi^^^  lVhitma7i. 

He  spent  very  little  time  in  writing.  It  is  probable  that  he 
never  did  give  mncli  time  to  that  occupation.  He  wrote  very 
few  private  letters.  While  he  was  with  us  he  would  write  a  letter 
to  a  Canada  paper,  full  of  his  travels,  his  condition  and  his  latest 
doings  and  thoughts,  and  get  fifty  or  a  hundred  copies  and  send 
them  to  his  friends  and  relations,  especially  the  girls  and  young 
folks,  and  make  that  do  for  correspondence.  Almost  all  his 
writing  was  done  with  a  pencil  in  a  sort  of  loose  book  that  he 
carried  in  his  breast  pocket.  The  book  consisted  of  a  few  sheets 
of  good  white  paper  folded  and  fastened  with  a  pin  or  two ;  he 
said  he  had  tried  all  sorts  of  note-books  and  he  liked  that  kind 
best.  He  has  undoubtedly  used  up  hundreds  of  such  little  books; 
his  Leaves  of  Grass,  his  memoranda  of  the  Secession  War,  and 
his  writings  to  this  day,  including  Specimen  Days,  were  and  are 
formed  in  that  manner.  The  literary  work  that  he  did  was  done 
at  all  sorts  of  times,  and  generally  on  his  knee,  impromptu,  and 
often  outdoors.  Even  m  a  room  with  the  usual  conveniences 
for  writing  he  did  not  use  a  table ;  he  put  a  book  on  his  knee,  or 
held  it  in  his  left  hand,  laid  his  paper  upon  it  and  wrote  so.  His 
handwriting  is  clear  and  plain,  every  letter  perfectly  formed,  and 
always  to  me  characteristic  of  the  man.  His  "copy"  for  the 
printers  might  look  rather  startling  at  first  glance,  full  of  cross- 
ings out,  directions  and  interlineations,  but  compositors  soon  got 
used  to  it,  and  then  wanted  nothing  better. 

He  was  very  fond  of  flowers  (fortunately  we  had  great  plenty — 
acres  of  them),  either  wild  or  cultivated — would  often  gather  and 
arrange  an  immense  bouquet  of  them  for  the  dinner-table,  for  the 
room  where  he  sat,  or  for  his  bed-room — wore  a  bud  or  just- 
started  rose  or  perhaps  a  geranium,  pinned  to  the  lapel  of  his 
coat  a  great  part  of  the  time — did  not  seem  to  have  much  pref- 
erence for  one  kind  over  any  other — liked  all  sorts.  I  think  he 
admired  lilacs  and  sunflowers  just  as  much  as  roses.  "  The  tall 
leaning  of  sunflowers  on  their  stalks  "  seemed  to  have  a  fascina- 


sort  of  interior  battery — out  of  which,  charged  to  the  full  wi-.i  such  emotional  impetus  only, 
and  without  ranting  or  any  of  the  usual  accessories  or  clap-trap  of  the  actor  or  singer,  he 
launches  what  he  has  to  say,  free  of  noise  or  strain,  yet  with  a  power  that  makes  one  almost 
Kemble. 


P?J^<2_  SiU^<)-eyi^    c^^/^>o^.  9ze<A}^   "^^j^e^z^  cJ^ie.'tA, 


0 


^ht.^^C^^^     ^      ^^       ^^V-^.'^^^t^^^.C^f;/ 


His  fondness  for  Children.  5  5 

tion  for  him.  Perhaps,  indeed,  no  man  who  ever  lived  liked  so 
many  things  and  disliked  so  few  as  Walt  Whitman.  All  natural 
objects  seemed  to  have  a  charm  for  him;  all  sights  and  sounds, 
outdoors  and  indoors,  seemed  to  please  him.  He  appeared  to 
like  (and  I  believe  he  did  like)  all  the  men,  women  and  children 
he  saw  (though  I  never  knew  him  to  say  that  he  liked  any  one), 
but  each  who  knew  him  felt  that  he  liked  him  or  her,  and  that 
he  liked  others  also.  He  was  here  entirely  natural  and  uncon- 
ventional. When  he  did  express  a  preference  for  any  person 
(which  was  very  seldom)  he  would  indicate  it  in  some  indirect 
way  J  for  instance,  I  have  known  him  to  say,  "Good-bye,  my 
love,"  to  a  young  married  lady  he  had  only  seen  half  a  dozen 
times. 

He  was  especially  fond  of  children,  and  all  children  liked  and 
trusted  him  at  once.  Often  the  little  ones,  tired  out  and  fretful, 
the  moment  he  took  them  up  and  caressed  them,  would  cease 
crying,  and  perhaps  go  to  sleep  in  his  arms.  One  day  in  the 
summer  of  1880,  several  ladies,  the  poet  and  myself,  attended  a 
picnic  given  to  hundreds  of  poor  children  in  London.  During 
the  day  I  lost  sight  of  my  friend  for  perhaps  an  hour,  and  when 
I  found  him  again  he  was  sitting  in  a  quiet  nook  by  the  river 
side,  with  a  rosy-faced  child  of  four  or  five  years'  old,  tired  out 
and  sound  asleep  in  his  lap.* 

For  young  and  old  his  touch  had  a  charm  that  cannot  be  de- 
scribed, and  if  it  could,  the  description  would  not  be  believed 
except  by  those  who  know  him  either  personally  or  through 
Leaves  of  Grass,  This  charm  (physiological  more  than  psycholog- 

♦  Burial  of  Little  Walter  Whitman. — Among  the  late  mortality  in  Camden,  from 
heat,  to  young  children,  Cohmel  George  W.  Wiiitman  and  wife  lost  their  infant  son  and  only 
child  Walter,  less  than  a  year  of  age.  The  funeral  was  last  Friday.  In  the  middle  of  the 
room,  in  its  white  coffin,  lay  the  dead  babe,  strewed  with  a  profusion  of  fresh  geranium  leaves 
and  some  tuberoses.  For  over  an  hour  all  the  young  ones  of  the  neighborhood  kept  coming 
silently  in  groups  or  couples  or  singly,  quite  a  stream  surrounding  the  coffin.  Near  the 
corpse,  in  a  great  chair,  sat  Walt  Whitman,  the  poet,  quite  enveloped  by  children,  holding 
one  encircled  by  either  arm,  and  a  beautiful  little  girl  on  his  lap.  The  little  girl  looked  curi- 
ously at  the  spectacle,  and  then  inquiringly  up  in  the  old  man's  face.  "  V'ou  don't  know  what 
it  IS,  do  you,  my  dear?"  said  he — adding,  "  We  don't  either."  Of  the  children  surrounding 
the  coffin  many  were  mere  babes,  and  had  to  be  lifted  up  to  look.  There  was  no  sermon,  no 
ceremony,  everything  natural  and  informal,  but,  perhaps,  there  never  was  a  more  siiciiliy 
eloquent,  simple,  solemn  and  touching  sight. — Philadelphia  Ledger,  July  20,  1876. 


56  IVa//  W/dhnan. 

iral),  if  understood,  would  explain  the  whole  mystery  of  the  man, 
and  how  he  produced  such  effects  not  only  upon  the  well,  but 
among  the  sick  and  wounded. 

It  is  certain  also,  perhaps  contrary  to  what  T  have  given,  that 
there  is  another  i)hase,  and  a  very  real  one,  to  the  basis  of  his 
character.  An  elderly  gentleman  I  talked  with  (he  is  a  portrait 
painter  and  a  distant  relative  of  the  poet),  who  has  been  much 
with,  and  knew  him,  particularly  through  the  years  of  his  middle 
age  and  later  (1845  to  1870),  tells  me  that  Walt  Whitman,  in  the 
elements  of  his  character,  had  deepest  sternness  and  hauteur,  not 
easily  aroused,  but  coming  forth  at  times,  and  then  well  under- 
stood by  those  who  know  him  best  as  something  n'ot  to  be  trifled 
with.  The  gentlema.i  alluded  to  (he  is  a  reader  and  thorough 
?iQ.c(i\)iex  oi  Leaves  of  Grass)  JXgvQQS  with  me  in  my  delineation 
of  his  benevolence,  evenness,  and  tolerant  optimism,  yet  insists 
that  at  the  inner  framework  of  the  poet  has  always  been,  as  he  ex- 
presses it,  "a  combination  of  hot  blood  and  fighting  qualiHes." 
He  says  my  outline  applies  more  especially  to  his  later  years;  that 
Walt  Whitman  has  gradually  brought  to  the  front  the  attributes  I 
dwell  upon,  and  given  them  control.  His  theory  is,  in  almost  his 
own  words,  that  there  are  two  natures  in  Walt  Whitman.  The  one 
is  of  immense  suavity,  self-control,  a  mysticism  like  the  occasional 
fits  of  Socrates,  and  a  pervading  Christ-like  benevolence,  tender- 
ness, and  sympathy  (the  sentiment  of  the  intaglio  frontispiece 
portrait,  which  I  showed  him,  and  he  said  he  had  seen  exactly 
that  look  in  "the  old  man,"  and  more  than  once,  during  1863- 
'64,  though  he  never  observed  it  before  or  since).  But  these 
qualities,  though  he  has  enthroned  them,  and  for  many  years 
governed  his  life  by  them,  are  duplicated  by  far  sterner  ones. 
No  doubt  he  has  mastered  the  latter,  but  he  has  them.  How 
could  Walt  Whitman  (said  my  interlocutor)  have  taken  the  atti- 
tude toward  evil,  and  things  evil,  which  is  behind  every  page  of 
his  utterance  in  Leaves  of  Grass,  from  first  to  last — so  different 
on  that  subject  from  every  wiliter  known,  new  or  old — unless  he 
enfolded  all  that  evil  within  him?  (To  all  of  which  I  give  place 
here  as  not  essentially  inconsistent — if  true — with  my  own  the- 


After  the  rest,  a  repellent  side.  57 

ory  of  the  poet's  nature,  and  also  because  I  am  determined  to 
take  the  fullest  view  of  him,  and  from  all  sides.) 

In  an  article  in  the  "Galaxy"  for  December,  1866,  John 
Burroughs  said  : 

Lftliargic  (luriii{j  an  interview,  passive  .and  receptive,  an  admirable  list- 
ener, never  in  a  hurry,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  plenty  of  leisure, 
always  in  perfect  repose,  simple  and  direct  in  manners,  a  hjvcr  of  |)lain, 
common  people,  "  meeter  of  savaije  and  genileman  on  equal  terms,"  tem- 
perate, chaste,  sweet-hreath'd,  tender  and  affectionate,  of  copious  friendship, 
with  a  large,  summery,  paternal  soul  that  shines  in  all  his  ways  and  looks, 
hu  IS  by  no  means  the  "rough"  certain  people  have  been  so  willing  to 
believe.  Fa-tidious  as  a  high  caste  Urahmin  in  his  food  and  personal 
neatness  and  cleanliness,  well  dressed,  with  a  gray,  open  throat,  a  deep 
sympathetic  voice,  a  kind,  genial  look,  the  impression  he  makes  upon  you 
is  that  of  the  best  blood  and  breeding.  He  reminds  one  of  the  first  men, 
the  beginners;  has  a  primitive,  outdoor  look — not  so  much  from  being  in 
the  open  air  as  from  the  texture  and  (juality  of  his  make — a  look  as  of 
the  earth,  ihe  sea,  or  the  mountains,  and  *'  is  usually  taken,"  says  a  late 
champion  of  his  cause,  "  for  some  great  mechanic,  or  stevedore,  or  sea- 
man, or  grand  laborer  of  one  kind  or  another."  His  physiognomy  pre- 
sents very  marked  features — features  of  the  true  antique  pattern,  almost 
obsolete  in  modern  faces — seen  in  the  strong,  scjuare  bridge  of  his  nose, 
his  high  arching  brows,  and  the  absence  of  all  bulging  in  his  forehead — 
a  face  approximating  in  type  to  the  statuetl  Greek.  He  does  not  mean 
intellect  merely,  l)ut  life;  and  one  feels  that  he  must  arrive  at  his  results 
rather  by  sympathy  and  absorption  than  by  hard  intellectual  processes — by 
the  etlluence  of  power  rather  than  by  direct  and  total  application  of  it. 

In  conclusion,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  that  there  is  another 
side  to  the  picture,  the  indispensable  exception  that  proves  the 
rule.  This  man,  the  sight  of  whom  excites  such  extraordinary  affec- 
tion, whose  voice  has  for  most  of  those  who  hear  it  such  a  wonder- 
ful charm,  whose  touch  possesses  a  power  which  no  words  can 
express — in  rare  instances,  this  man,  like  the  magnet,  repels  as 
well  as  attracts.  As  there  are  those  who  instinctively  love  him, 
so  there  are  others,  here  and  there,  who  instinctively  dislike  him. 
The  furious  assaults  of  the  press  during  twenty-five  years,  the 
disgraceful  action  of  Secretary  Harlan  in  1S65,  the  continuous 
relusal  of  publishers  to  publish  his  poems,  and  of  booksellers  to 
sell  ihem,  the  legal  threats  in  1882  of  the  Massachusetts  Attor- 


58  Wa/t  Whitman. 

ney-Genenl,  voiced  by  Boston's  District  Attorney  Stevens — the 
cowardly  throwing  up  of  their  contract  by  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co. — 
persecution  by  the  wretched  Anthony  Comstock  and  his  pitiful 
"Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Vice" — with  all  the  prevalent 
doubt  and  freezing  coldness  of  the  literary  classes  and  organs  up 
to  this  hour — are  fitting  outcomes  and  illustrations  of  that  other 
side.  As  his  poetic  utterances  are  so  ridiculous  to  many,  even 
his  personal  appearance,  in  not  a  few  cases,  arouses  equally  sar- 
castic remark.  His  large  figure,  his  red  face,  his  copious  beard, 
his  loose  and  free  attire,  his  rolling  and  unusually  ample  shirt- 
collar,  without  necktie  and  always  wide  open  at  the  throat,  all 
meet  at  times  (and  not  so  seldom,  either,)  with  jeers  and  explosive 
laughter.  Pages  and  extracts  in  this  volume  (see  Appendix)  give 
many  samples  of  incredible  misapprehension  and  malignance  to- 
ward the  book  Leaves  of  Grass.  They  could  be  fully  tallied  with 
records  of  equal  rancor,  foulness,  and  falsehood  against  Walt 
Whitman  personally.  That  such  exist,  and  will  probably  con- 
tinue, is  doubtless  according  to  a  morbid  attribute  of  humanity, 
and  one  of  its  most  mysterious  laws.  A  Washington  reviewer 
some  years  since  said  on  this  subject : 

Walt  Whitman  personally  is  a  study,  afibrding  the  strongest  lights  and  shades. 
With  all  his  undoubted  instincts  of  perfection,  he  by  no  means  sets  up 
for  a  saint,  but  is  a  full-blooded  fellow,  with  a  life  showing  past  blunders  and 
missteps,  and  a  spirit  not  only  tolerant  toward  weak  and  sinful  mortals,  but 
probably  A  secret  leaning  toward  them.  Then  he  has  not  escaped  the  fate  of 
personalities  whc  rouse  public  attention,  and  canards,  by  originality  and  inde- 
pendence. Perhaps,  too,  he  has  that  affectation  sometimes  seen — a  grim 
amusement  in  tacitly  taunting  and  inviting  them.  Singularly  simple  and 
plain,  few  men  are  so  beloved  as  he — few  have  ever  so  magnetized;  yet  none 
afford  more  temptation  to  caricature  or  bogus  anecdotes.  The  late  summing- 
up  of  a  lirst-rate  judge  of  human  nature,  that  personal  knowledge  of  him  un- ? 
erringly  dissipates  such  liclions,  is  the  best  disposal  of  the  whole  matter. 


CHAPTER  III. 
HIS  CONVERSATION. 

Hr  did  not  talk  much.  Sometimes,  while  remaining  cheery 
and  good-natured,  he  would  speak  very  little  all  day.  His  con- 
versation, when  he  did  talk,  was  at  all  times  easy  and  uncon- 
strained. I  never  knew  him  to  argue  or  dispute,  and  he  never 
spoke  about  money.  He  always  justified,  sometimes  playfully, 
sometimes  quite  seriously,  those  who  spoke  harslily  of  himself 
or  his  writings,  and  I  often  thought  he  even  took  pleasure  in  those 
sharp  criticisms,  slanders,  and  the  opposition  of  enemies.  He 
said  that  his  critics  were  quite  right,  that  behind  what  his  friends 
saw  he  was  not  at  all  what  he  seemed,  and  that  from  the  point 
of  view  of  its  foes,  his  book  deserved  all  the  hard  things  they 
could  say  of  it— and  that  he  himself  undoubtedly  deserved  them 
and  plenty  more. 

When  I  first  knew  Walt  Whitman  I  used  to  think  that  he 
watched  himself,  and  did  not  allow  his  tongue  to  give  expression 
to  feelings  of  fretfulness,  antipathy,  complaint,  and  remonstrance. 
It  did  not  occur  to  me  as  possible  that  these  mental  states  could 
be  absent  in  him.  After  long  observation,  however,  and  talking 
to  others  who  had  known  him  many  years,  I  satisfied  myself  that 
such  absence  or  unconsciousness  was  entirely  real. 

His  deep,  clear,  and  earnest  voice  makes  a  good  part,  though 
not  all,  of  the  charm  of  the  simplest  things  he  says;  a  voice  not 
characteristic  of  any  special  nationality,  accent,  or  dialect.  If 
he  said  (as  he  sometimes  would  involuntarily  on  stepping  to  the 
door  and  looking  out),  "Oh,  the  beautiful  sky!"  or  ''Oh,  the 
beautiful  grass  !"  the  words  produced  the  effect  of  sweet  music. 

One  evening  he  spoke  quite  freely  of  his  British  friends.  Pro- 
fessor Dowden,  Addington  Symonds,  Tennyson  (who  had  sent 
him  a  letter  warmly  inviting  him  over  there  to  T.'s  house),  Pro- 


6o  Wait  Whitman. 

fessor  Clifford,  and  other  and  younger  ones.  I  remember  his 
glowing  words  of  esteem  and  affection  for  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  and 
also  for  Robert  Buchanan  (whose  denunciations  and  scathing 
appeal  in  the  London  papers  at  the  time  of  the  poet's  darkest 
persecution,  sickness,  and  poverty,  made  such  a  flutter  in  1876).* 

He  said  one  day  when  talking  about  some  fine  scenery,  and  the 
desire  to  go  and  see  it  (and  he  himself  was  very  fond  of  new 
scenery),  "After  all,  the  great  lesson  is  that  no  si)ecial  natural 
"sights,  not  Alps,  Niagara,  Yosemite,  or  anything  else,  is  more 
"grand  or  more  beautiful  than  the  ordinary  sunrise  and  sunset, 
"earth  and  sky,  the  common  trees  and  grass."  Properly  under- 
stood, I  believe  this  suggests  the  central  teaching  of  his  writings 
and  life,  namely,  that  the  commonplace  is  the  grandest  of  all 
things  ;  that  the  exceptional  in  any  line  is  no  finer,  better,  or 
more  beautiful  than  the  usual,  and  that  what  is  really  wanting  is 
not  that  we  should  possess  something  we  have  not  at  present,  but 
that  our  eyes  should  be  opened  to  see  and  our  hearts  to  feel  what 
we  all  have. 

On  the  evening  of  the  ist  of  August,  iSSo,  as  we  were  sitting 
together  on  the  veranda  of  the  "Hub  House,"  among  the 
Thousand  Islands  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  I  said  to  Walt  Whitman, 
"  It  seems  to  me  surprising  that  you  never  married.  Did  you 
remain  single  of  set  purpose?"  He  said,  "  No,  I  have  hardly 
"  done  anything  in  my  life  of  set  purpose,  in  the  way  you  mean." 
After  a  minute,  he  added,  "  I  suppose  the  chief  reason  why  I 
"  :"'ever  married  must  have  been  an  overmastering  passion  for 
"entire  freedom,  unconstraint ;  I  had  an  instinct  against  form- 
"  ing  ties  that  would  bind  me."  I  said,  "  Yes,  it  was  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation.  Had  you  married  at  the  usual  age,  Leaves 
of  Grass  would  never  have  been  written." 


*  He  who  wanders  through  the  solitudes  of  far-off  Uist  or  lonely  Donegal  may  often  behold 
the  Golden  Eagle  sick  to  death,  worn  with  age  or  famine,  or  with  both,  passing  with  weary 
waft  of  wing  from  promontory  to  promontory,  from  peak  to  peak,  pursued  by  a  crowd  of 
prosperous  rooks  and  crows,  which  fall  screaming  back  whenever  the  noble  bird  turns  his 
indignant  head,  and  which  follow  frantically  once  more,  hooting  behind  him,  whenever  he 
wends  again  upon  his  way.  The  rook  is  a  "  recognized"  bird  ;  the  crow  is  perfectly  "  estab- 
lished." But  for  the  Eagle,  when  he  sails  aloft  in  the  splendor  of  his  strength,  who  shall  per- 
fectly discern  and  measure  his  flight? — Robert  Buchanan,  London  Daily  News,  March  13. 
1876. 


I  Us  Conversation.  6i 

The  same  evening  wc  talked  about  the  nse  of  alcohol,  and  we 
agreed  that  as  mankind  advanced  in  a  noble  individuality  they 
would  give  up  stimulants  of  all  kinds  as  being  always  in  the  long 
run  a  mistake  and  unprofitable.  He  said,  "The  capital  argument 
"against  alcohol,  that  which  must  eventually  condemn  its  use, 
"is  this,  that  it  takes  away  all  the  reserved  control,  the  power 
"of  mastership,  and  therefore  offends  against  that  splendid 
"pride  in  himself  or  herself  which  is  fundamental  in  every  man 
"or  woman  worth  anything." 

One  day  talking  about  religious  experiences,  Walt  Whitman 
said,  "I  never  had  any  particular  religious  experiences — never 
"felt  that  I  needed  to  be  saved — never  felt  the  need  of  spiritual 
"regeneration — never  had  any  fear  of  hell,  or  distrust  of  the 
"scheme  of  the  universe.  I  always  felt  that  it  was  perfectly 
"  right  and  for  the  best." 

On  the  gth  of  August  we  were  together  at  the  Falls  of  Mont- 
morenci,  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  There  had  been  a  good 
deal  of  rain,  the  river  was  high,  and  the  falls  finer  than  usual.  I 
said,  "  Now,  Walt,  put  that  in  a  poem  just  as  it  is;  if  that  could 
be  done  it  would  be  magnificent."  He  said,  "All  such  things 
"  need  at  least  the  third  or  fourth  remove;  in  itself  it  would  be 
"too  much  for  nine  out  of  every  ten  readers.  Very  few  "  (he 
said,  a  little  mischievously,  perhaps),  "care  for  natural  objects 
"themselves,  rocks,  rain,  hail,  wild  animals,  tangled  forests, 
"weeds,  mud,  common  Nature.  They  want  her  in  a  shape  fit 
"for  reading  about  in  a  rocking-chair,  or  as  ornaments  in  china, 
"marble,  or  bronze.  The  real  things  are,  far  more  than  they 
"would  own,  disgusting,  revolting  to  them.  This"  (he  added, 
half  quizzically)  "  may  b<.  a  reason  of  the  dislike  of  Leaves  of 
^' Grass  by  the  majority." 

Walt  Whitman,  however,  never  mentions  Leaves  of  Grass, 
unless  first  spoken  to  on  the  subject  ;  then  he  talks  about  it,  and 
his  purpose  in  writing  it.  as  of  any  ordinary  matter.  I  have 
never  heard  hip  myself  say  much  on  the  subject,  but  I  will  give 
here  some  of  his  words  taken  from  the  "  Springfield  Republican," 
reported,  I  have  reason  to  know,  as  they  were  said  impromptu  : 
"  Well,  I'll  suggest  to  you  what  my  poems  have  grown  out  of, 


62  JVa//  Whitman. 

'since  you  want  to  know  so  bad.  I  understand  as  well  as  any 
'  one  they  are  ambitious  and  egotistical,  but  I  hope  the  founda- 
'  tions  are  far  deeper.  We  have  to-day  no  songs,  no  expressions 
'  from  the  poets'  and  artists'  points  of  view,  of  sc'^nce,  of  Ameri- 
*can  democracy,  and  of  the  modern.  The  typical  war  spirit  of 
'the  anticpie  world,  and  its  heroes  and  leaders,  have  been  fully 
'depicted  and  preserved  in  Homer,  and  since.  Rapt  ecstasy  and 
'Oriental  veneration  are  in  the  Bible;  the  literature  of  those 
•qualities  will  never,  can  never,  ascend  any  higher.  The  ages 
'of  feudalism  and  European  chivalry,  through  their  results  and 
'personalities,  are  in  Shakespeare.  But  where  is  the  work,  where 
'the  poem,  in  which  the  entirely  different  but  fully  equal  glories 
'  and  practice  of  our  own  democratic  times,  of  the  scientific, 
'the  materialistic,  are  held  in  solution,  fused  in  human  person- 
'  ality  and  emotions,  and  fully  expressed  ?  If,  for  instance,  by 
'  some  vast,  instantaneous  convulsion,  American  civilization 
'  were  lost,  where  is  the  poem,  or  imaginative  work  in  any  depart- 
'  ment,  which,  if  saved  from  the  wreck,  would  preserve  the  char- 
'acteristics  and  memories  of  it  to  succeeding  worlds  of  men  ? 

"You  speak  of  Shakespeare  and  the  relative  poetical  demands 
'and  opportunities,  then  and  now — niy  own  included.  Shake- 
'  speare  had  his  boundless  rich  materials,  all  his  types  and  char- 
'acters,  the  main  threads  of  his  plots,  fully  ripened  and  waiting 
'  to  be  woven  in.  The  feudal  world  had  flourished  for  centuries — 
'  gave  him  the  perfect  king,  the  lord,  all  that  is  heroic  and  grace- 
'  ful  and  proud — gave  him  the  exquisite  transfigurations  of  caste, 
'sifted  and  selected  out  of  the  huge  masses,  as  if  for  him,  choice 
'specimens  of  proved  and  noble  gentlemen,  varied  and  romantic 
'incidents  of  the  military,  social,  political  and  ecclesiastical 
'  history  of  a  thousand  years,  all  ready  to  fall  into  his  plots  and 
'  pages.  Then  the  time  comes  for  the  evening  of  feudalism.  A 
'new  power  has  advanced,  and  the  flush,  the  pomp,  the  accumu- 
'  lated  materials  of  those  ages  take  on  the  complex  gorgeousness 
'of  sunset.  At  this  point  Shakespeare  appears.  By  amazing 
'  opportuneness,  his  faculty,  his  power,  the  feudalistic  demands 
'  on  him,  combine,  and  he  is  their  poet.  But  for  my  poems,  what 
'  have  I  ?     I  have  all  to  make — have  really  to  fashion  all,  except 


His  Conversation.  63 

"my  own  intentions — have  to  constructively  sing  the  ideal  yet 
"unformed  America.  Siiakespcare  sang  the  past,  the  formed; 
"  I  project  the  unformed,  the  future — depend  on  the  future,  and 
"  have  to  make  my  own  audience. 

"  Most  of  the  great  poets  are  impersonal ;  I  am  personal. 
"  They  portray  their  endless  characters,  events,  passions,  love- 
"  plots,  but  seldom  or  never  mention  themselves.  In  my  poems 
"all  concentrates  in,  radiates  from,  revolves  around  myself.  I 
*'  have  but  one  central  figure,  the  general  human  personality 
"typified  in  myself.  Only  I  am  sure  my  book  inevitably  necessi- 
"  tales  that  its  reader  transpose  him  or  herself  into  that  central 
*'  position,  and  become  the  actor,  experiencer,  himself  or  herself, 
"of  every  page,  every  aspiration,  every  line." 

In  our  family  groups  and  sociable  company,  he  was  fond  of 
telling  little  funny  stories,  bringing  in  comical  sayings,  generally 
trivial  in  themselves  (sometimes  quite  vjnerable),  deriving  most 
of  their  charm — and  they  were  very  amusing — from  special  apt- 
ness to  the  case,  and  from  his  manner  of  telling  them.  In  St. 
Louis,  where  he  was  a  half  invalid,  one  winter,  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  visiting,  twice  a  week,  the  kindergarten  schools,  and 
spending  an  hour  at  a  time  among  the  young  children,  who 
gathered  in  swarms  about  him  to  listen  to  "  The  three  Cats  who 
took  a  Walk,"  or  some  other  juvenile  story.  Lingering  with  us 
all  at  the  table  after  tea  was  a  favorite  recreation  with  him.  The 
following  are  some  examples  of  his  dry  anecdotes,  generally  told 
to  groups  of  little  or  larger  children  : 

There  was  a  very  courageous  but  simple  old  woman,  and  some 
chaps  agreed  upon  a  plan  to  frighten  her.  One  of  them  dressed 
up  in  black,  with  horns  and  tail,  and  made  himself  very  frightful. 
In  this  rig  he  appeared  to  the  old  woman  at  night  and  said  in  a 
terrible  voice,  **  Look  at  me  1  "  The  old  lady  calmly  put  on  her 
spectacles,  looked  him  steadily  all  over  and  said,  "  Who  are  you?" 
"  I  am  the  devil !"  said  he,  in  a  deep  voice.  "  You  the  devil, 
are  you?  "  said  the  old  woman  composedly  ;  then  calmly,  after  a 
pause — *  *  poor  creetur  /^ ' 

He  was  fond  of  the  well-known  story  al  '^i.'^  a  sailor  ship- 


64  ?^W/  Whitman. 

wrecked  upon  a  strange  coast,  who  wandering  inland  after  a  long 
jaunt  saw  a  gibbet  holding  a  murderer's  corpse,  and  immediately 
burst  out,  "  Thank  Gotl,  at  last  I  am  in  a  Christian  land." 

A  dry  expression  of  his,  talking  about  some  one  was,  "  Well, 
he  has  the  good  sense  to  like  me."  He  used  to  tell  about  some 
man  who  said,  when  it  was  alleged  that  a  certain  fact  was  histori- 
cal, "Oh,  it's  in  the  history  is  it?  then  I  k/ioia  it  must  be  a 
lie."  He  would  often  give  the  following  as  "  the  wise  French- 
man's reason  :  "  **  Do  you  say  it  is  impossible?  then  I  am  sure  it 
will  come  to  pass." 

One  day  he  said:  "Among  the  gloomy  and  terrible  sights  of 
the  Secession  War  were  often  extremely  humorous  occurrences. 
It  was  a  sort  of  rule  in  many  hospitals  when  certain  that  a  patient 
would  die,  to  give  him  almost  whatever  he  wanted  to  eat  or 
drink.  Under  these  circumstances  some  of  the  men  would  ask 
for  whisky,  and  drink  it  freely.  One  man,  a  rough  Westerner, 
whose  life  was  limited  to  a  few  hours,  used  to  wake  up  in  the 
night  and  call  out  to  the  watchman,  '  Come,  Bill,  give  me  some 
whisky;  you  know  we  are  going  to  die.  Come,  give  me  some 
whisky,  quick  !'  " 

He  had  many  dry  idioms  from  his  old  intimacy  with  omnibus 
drivers  in  New  York  and  other  cities.  (He  always  "took  to 
them"  and  they  to  him — and  the  same  to  this  day;  at  Christ- 
mas, in  Washington,  Philadelphia,  Camden,  or  where  residirg  at 
the  time,  he  has  for  years  had  a  custom  of  dispensing  to  these 
drivers,  on  quite  a  large  scale,  presents  of  the  strong  warm  buck- 
skin gloves  so  serviceable  in  that  occupation.)  One  little  story 
was  of  an  old  Broadway  driver,  who,  being  interrogated  about  a 
certain  unpopular  new-comer,  answered  with  a  grin,  "Oh,  he's 
one  o'  them  pie-eaters  from  Connecticut." 

Walt  Whitman  was  so  invariably  courteous  and  kind  in  his  man- 
ner to  every  one,  it  might  have  been  thought  he  could  have  easily 
been  bored  and  imposed  upon,  but  this  was  not  at  all  the  case. 
He  had  so  much  tact  that  he  always  found  a  way  of  escape.  He 
had  a  horror  of  smart  talkers,  and  particularly  of  being  questioned 
or  interrogated.  He  had  a  very  dry  manner  of  dismissing  in- 
truders, or  correcting  those  who  went  too  far — not  surly,  but  a 


His  Conversation.  65 

peculiar  tone  of  the  voice,  and  glance  of  the  eye,  and  sometimes 
a  good-natured  anecdote.  A  gentleman  said  to  him  one  evening 
at  tea-time,  "I  should  not  think,  Mr.  Whitman,  that  you  were 
at  all  an  emotional  man."  "Well,"  he  replied  drily,  ''there  is 
"an  old  farmer  down  in  Jersey,  who  says  nothuig,  but  keeps  up 
"a  devil  of  a  thinking;  and  there  are  others  like  him." 

He  once  told  me  he  had  read  a  good  many  different  translations 
of  Homer,  and  that  the  one  he  liked  best,  after  all,  was  Buckley's 
literal  prose  version.  He  did  not  care  for  either  Lord  Derby's 
or  Bryant's.  I  was  reading  the  "  Iliad  "  one  day  as  we  sat  on 
the  veranda  together,  and  I  made  some  remark  to  the  effect  that 
it  was  praised  on  account  of  its  age  and  scholarly  associations 
rather  than  its  intrinsic  merit,  and  that  if  it  was  first  published 
now,  no  one  would  care  anything  about  it.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"  perhaps  not,  but  not  for  the  reason  you  say.  See,"  he  said — 
the  subject  seemed  to  inspirit  him,  for  he  rose  and  walked  slowly 
up  and  down,  leaning  on  his  cane,  occasionally  pausing — "See 
"  how  broadly  and  simply  it  opens.  An  old  priest  comes,  op- 
"  pressed  with  grief,  to  the  sea-shore.  The  beach  stretches  far 
"  away,  and  the  waves  roll  sounding  in.  The  old  man  calls  his 
"  divine  master,  Apollo,  not  to  permit  the  foul  insults  and  inju- 
"  ries  put  upon  him  by  the  leader  of  the  Greeks.  Almost  at  once 
"  in  the  distance  an  immense  shadowy  form,  tall  as  a  tree,  comes 
"striding  over  the  mountains.  On  his  back  he  carries  his  quiver 
"  of  arrows,  and  his  long  silver  bow.  Just  think  of  it,"  he  said, 
"so  daring,  so  unlike  the  cultivated  prettiness  of  our  poets — so 
"grim,  free,  large.  No,  no,"  he  continued,  "don't  make  light 
"  of  the  '  Iliad.'  Think  how  hard  it  is  for  a  modern,  one  of  us, 
"to  put  himself  in  sympathy  with  those  old  Greeks,  with  their 
"associations."  These  are  the  words  that  he  used,  but  to  see 
them  in  print  will  convey  only  a  faint  impression  of  their  effect, 
or  of  the  man  as  he  said  them — the  manner,  the  deep,  rich 
melody  of  the  finest  voice  I  believe  in  the  world. 

He  thinks  much  of  Dr.  John  A.  Carlyle's  translation  of  Dante's 
"  Inferno,"  has  had  the  volume  by  him  for  many  years,  reads  in 
it  often,  and  told  me  he  had  learned  very  much  from  it,  espe- 
cially in  conciseness — "  no  surplus  flesh,"  as  he  describes  it. 

6 


66  Wali  Whitman. 

He  said  very  deliberately  to  me  once  that  he  believed  he  knew 
less,  in  certain  respects,  about  Leaves  of  Grass  than  some  of  the 
readers  of  it ;  and  I  believe  (strange  as  it  may  seem)  that  this  is 
true.  There  are  things  in  the  book  I  am  sure  could  never  be  fully 
appreciated  from  the  author's  point  of  view. 

He  said  one  day  that  he  considered  the  most  distinguishing 
feature  of  his  own  poetry  to  be  "  Its  modernness — the  taking  up  in 
**  their  own  spirit  of  all  that  specially  differentiates  our  era  from 
"others,  particularly  our  democratic  tendencies." 

Another  time  he  said  :  "  The  unspoken  meaning  of  Leaves  of 
"  Grass,  never  absent,  yet  not  told  out — the  indefinable  animus 
**  behind  every  page,  is  a  main  part  of  the  book.  Something 
"  entirely  outside  of  literature,  as  hitherto  written  ;  outside  of  art 
**  in  all  departments.  Takes  hold  of  muscular  democratic  viril- 
**  ities  without  wincing,  and  puts  them  in  verse.  This  makes  it 
**  distasteful  to  technical  critics  and  readers.  I  understand  all 
"those  shrinking  objections,"  he  Sc^id,  "and  consider  them  in 
"  one  sense  right  enough ;  but  there  was  something  for  me  to 
"do,  no  matter  how  it  hurt  or  offended  ;  and  I  have  done  it." 
He  said  further:  "I  don't  at  all  ignore  the  old  stock  elements 
"and  machinery  of  poetry,  but  instead  of  making  them  main 
"  things,  I  keep  them  away  in  the  background,  or  like  the  roots 
"  of  a  flower  or  tree,  out  of  sight.  The  emotional  element,  for 
"  instance,  is  not  brought  to  the  front,  not  put  in  words 
"to  any  great  extent,  though  it  is  underneath  every  page. 
"  I  have  made  my  poetry  out  of  actual,  practical  life,  such  as  is 
"common  to  every  man  and  woman,  so  that  all  have  an  equal 
"  share  in  it.  The  old  poets  went  on  the  assumption  that  there 
"  was  a  selection  needed.  I  make  little  or  no  selection,  put  in 
"common  things,  tools,  trades,  all  that  can  happen  or  belongs  to 
"  mechanics,  farmers,  or  the  practical  community.  I  have  not 
"  put  in  the  language  of  politics,  but  I  have  put  in  the  spirit ; 
"and  in  science,  by  intention  at  least,  the  most  advanced  points 
"are  perpetually  recognized  and  allowed  for." 

He  said  to  me  once,  "  1  often  have  to  be  quite  vehement  with 
"my  friends  to  convince  them  that  I  am  not  (and  don't  want  to 
"  be)  singular,  exceptional,  or  eminent.     I  am  willing  to  think 


His  Conversation.  67 

"  I  represent  vast  averages,  and  the  generic  American  masses — 
**  that  I  am  their  voice ;  but  not  that  I  should  be  in  any  sense 
"considered  an  exception  to  ordinary  men." 

Another  time  he  said,  "  I  have  always  considered  the  writing 
**  and  publication  of  Leaves  of  Grass  an  experiment.  Time  only 
"can  tell  how  it  will  turn  out." 

"Remember,  the  book  arose,"  he  said,  another  time,  "out  of 
"  my  life  in  Brooklyn  and  New  York  from  1838  to  1853,  absorb- 
"ing  a  million  people,  for  fifteen  years,  with  an  intimacy,  an 
"eagerness,  an  abandon,  probably  never  equalled — land  and 
"water.  I  have  told  you  how  I  used  to  spend  many  half  nights 
"  with  my  friends  the  pilots  on  the  Brooklyn  ferry-boats.  I  some- 
"  times  took  the  wheel  and  steered,  until  one  night  a  boat  I  was 
"steering  nearly  met  with  a  bad  accident.  After  that  I  would 
"not  touch  the  wheel  any  more." 

Walt  Whitman  and  Rev.  Mr.  R.  had  a  long  conversation  on 
the  veranda  one  beautiful  summer  evening.  Mr.  R.  wanted  to 
get  at  the  sources  and  birth  ol  Leaves  of  Grass  from  its  author. 
The  latter  spoke  as  he  always  does,  without  any  arriere  pensee. 
Among  other  things,  he  said  he  had  tried  to  do  something  that 
would  on  the  one  hand  give  expression  to  deepest  religious 
thought  and  feeling,  and  on  the  other  be  in  accord  with  the 
last  results  of  modern  science.  He  said,  "  I  do  not  know  thil 
"I  have  succeeded,  but  at  all  events  I  have  indicated  whuc  needs 
"  to  be  done — and  some  one  else  may  accomplish  the  task." 

Another  day  Mr.  R.  said,  talking  of  Colonel  Robert  Ingersoll : 
"  He  takes  away  what  we  have,  and  gives  us  nothing  in  its  place 
— is  there  any  good  or  service  in  that  ?"  He  pressed  Walt  Whit- 
man for  an  answer,  to  find  out  his  opinion  about  IngersoU's  argu- 
ment and  about  Christianity.  Walt  Wliitman  said  at  last :  "Well, 
"  I  think  the  main  and  final  point  about  the  whole  or  any  of  these 
"  things  is — is  it  true?" 

He  several  times  spoke  of  President  Lincoln,  whom  he  con- 
sidered the  most  markedly  national.  Western,  native  character 
the  United  States  has  yet  produced.  He  never  had  any  par- 
ticular intimacy  with  Mr.  Lincoln,  but  (being  a  personal  friend 
of  John  Hay,  confidential  secretary)  saw  a  good  deal  of  L. — was 


68  Wa/t  Whitman. 

much  at  the  White  House  (1863  and  '64),  and  knew  the  Presi- 
dent's character  behind  the  scenes.  In  after  years  ne  der>ired  to 
keep  the  anniversary  of  Mr.  Lincohi's  death  by  a  public  lecture 
he  had  prepared  (see  Specimen  Days),  but  he  could  get  neither 
engagements,  audiences,  nor  public  interest,*  and  after  delivering 
this  lecture  in  1879,  '80,  and  '81,  to  small  gatherings,  he  stopped  it. 

He  said  one  Sunday  morning  after  a  previous  merry  evening: 
**  God  likes  jokes  and  fun  as  well  as  He  likes  church-going  and 
"  prayers."  Once,  after  some  conversation,  he  went  on  to  specu- 
late whether  Luther  was  really  as  original  and  central  a  man  as 
generally  supposed,  or  whether  circumstances  ought  not  to  be 
credited  with  a  good  deal  that  seemed  to  flow  from  him — and 
whether  his  Reformation  was  of  such  value  to  the  world  as  most 
Protestants  think.  He  talked  of  great  men  generally,  and  how 
their  apparent  greatness  is  often  due  to  the  force  of  circumstances 
— often  because  it  is  convenient  for  history  to  use  them  as  radi- 
ating points  and  illustrations  of  vast  currents  of  ideas  floating 
in  the  time,  more  than  to  any  qualities  inherent  in  themselves — 
and  ended  by  discussing  Kenan's  opinion  of  the  relative  greatness 
of  Jesus,  Jesus  son  of  Sirach,  and  Hillel. 

One  evening  he  said  he  wondered  whether  modern  poets  might 
not  best  take  the  same  "new  departure"  that  Lord  Bacon  took 
in  science,  and  emerge  directly  from  Nature  and  its  laws,  and 
from  things  and  facts  themselves,  not  from  what  is  said  about 
them,  or  the  stereotyped  fancies,  or  abstract  ideas  of  the  beauti- 
ful, at  second  or  third  removes. 

He  once  said  no  one  but  a  medical  man  could  realize  the 
appropriateness  (jeered  at  by  the  "  Saturday  Review,"  as  proof 
positive  that  W.  W.  was  no  poet,)  of  his  putting  in  the  word 
"diarrhoea"  in  one  of  his  hospital  poems;  a  malady  that  stood 
third  on  the  deadly  list  of  camp  diseases.  In  the  same  connec- 
tion, he  said  that  several  pieces  in  Leaves  of  Grass  could  only  be 


*  In  one  of  the  principal  cities  of  the  United  States,  the  15th  anniversary  of  President  Lin- 
cohi's  death  (April  15,  1880)  was  commemorated  by  tliis  public  address.  The  next  morning 
the  discriminating  editor  of  the  leading  daily  paper  relegates  all  report  of  "  the  Death  of 
Abraham  Lincoln,"  as  described  and  commented  on  by  Walt  Whitman,  to  a  half-supercilious 
notice  of  five  or  six  lines — and  fills  two  columns  of  his  journal  with  a  lectuie  by  a  visiting 
English  clergyman,  on  "  the  lividential  Value  of  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  "I 


His  Conversation.  69 

thoroughly  understood  by  a  physician,  the  mothr      "  a  family  of 
children,  or  a  genuine  nurse. 

He  never  spoke  deprecatingly  of  any  nationality  or  class  of 
men,  or  time  in  the  world's  history,  or  feudalism,  or  against  any 
trades  or  occupations — not  even  against  any  animals,  insects, 
plants,  or  inanimate  things— nor  any  of  the  laws  of  Nature,  or 
any  of  the  results  of  those  laws,  such  as  illness,  deformity,  or 
death.  He  never  complains  or  grumbles  either  at  the  weather, 
pain,  illness,  or  at  anything  else.  He  never  in  conversation,  in 
any  company,  or  under  any  circumstances,  uses  language  that 
could  be  thought  indelicate.  (Of  course,  he  has  used  language 
in  his  poems  which  has  been  thought  indelicate,  but  none  that  is 
so.)  In  fact,  I  have  never  knov.m  of  his  uttering  a  word  or  a 
sentiment  which  might  not  be  published  without  any  prejudice 
to  his  fame.  He  never  swears;  he  could  not  very  well,  since  as 
far  as  I  know,  he  never  speaks  in  anger,  and  apparently  never  is 
angry.  (I  know  that  he  himself  will  emphatically  contradict  me 
— that  he  will  refuse  to  accept  this,  and  a  great  many  more  of  my 
outlines,  as  a  true  portrait  of  himself,  but  I  prefer  to  draw  and 
color  for  myself.)  He  never  exhibits  fear,  and  I'do  not  believe 
he  ever  feels  it.  His  conveisution,  mainly  toned  low,  is  always 
agreeable  and  usually  instructive.  He  never  makes  compliments 
— very  seldom  apologizes — uses  the  common  forms  of  civility, 
such  as  "if  you  please,"  and  "thank  you,"  quite  sparingly — 
usually  makes  a  nod  or  a  smile  answer  for  them.  -He  was,  in 
my  experience  of  him,  not  given  to  speculating  on  abstract 
questions  (though  I  have  heard  others  say  that  there  were  no 
subjects  in  which  he  so  much  delighted).  He  never  gossips. 
He  seldom  talks  about  private  people  even  to  say  something 
good  of  them,  except  to  answer  a  question  or  remark,  and  then 
he  always  gives  what  he  says  a  turn  favorable  to  the  person 
spoken  of. 

His  conversation,  speaking  generally,  is  of  current  affairs, 
work  of  the  day,  political  and  historical  news,  European  as  well 
as  American,  a  little  of  books,  much  of  the  aspects  of  Nature,  as 
scenery,  the  stars,  birds,  flowers,  and  trees.  He  reads  the  news- 
papers regularly  (I  used  to  tell  him  that  was  the  only  vice  he  had) ; 


70  Wa/i  Whilman. 

he  likes  good  descriptions  and  reminiscences.  He  does  not,  on 
the  whole,  talk  much  anyhow.  His  manner  is  invariably  calm 
and  simple,  belongs  to  itself  alone,  and  could  not  be  fully  de- 
scribed or  conveyed.  As  before  told,  he  is  fond  of  singing  to 
himself  snatches  of  songs  from  the  operas  or  oratorios,  often  a 
simple  strain  of  recitative,  a  sort  of  musical  murmur, — and  he 
sings  in  that  way  a  large  part  of  the  time  when  he  is  alone,  espe- 
cially when  he  is  outdoors.  He  spends  most  of  his  time  out- 
doors when  the  weather  permitb,  and  as  a  general  thing  he  does 
not  stay  in  fo.  rain  or  sn'.w,  but  I  think  likes  them  in  turn  as 
well  as  the  sunshine.  He  recites  poetry  often  to  himself  as  well  as 
to  others,  and  he  recites  well,  very  well.  He  never  recites  his 
own  poetry  (he  does  not  seem  to  know  any  of  it).  Yet  he  some- 
times reads  it,  when  asked  by  some  one  he  wants  to  gratify,  and 
he  reads  it  well.  I  do  not  know  whether  or  not  he  can  be  said 
to  sing  well ',  but  whether  he  does  or  not,  his  voice  is  so  igree- 
able  that  it  is  always  a  pleasure  to  hear  him. 


APPENDIX 

TO  PART  I. 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER 

(NOW   PREPARED,    1883,    FOR   THE   PRESENT   WORK)    TO 

THE  GOOD  GRAY  POET  (i865-'6), 

BY 

WILLIAM  DOUGLAS  O'CONNOR. 


(70 


From  a  Utter  to  R.  M.  D.,  by  IV.  F.,  Mobile,  Ala.,  March,  iS8j. 
.  .   ,    For  twenty-seven  years  have 


A  wil'l  anJ  many-wcaponed  throng 
Hung  on  the  front,  ;ini]  Hunk,  unci  rear 

of  Leaves  of  Grass,  and  the  author  has  suffered  two  special  public  governmental 
insults  for  writing  them.  I  hardly  sec  how  it  could  have  happened  any  other 
way.  But  is  it  not  a  luckier  fortune  than  eulogy  would  have  been?  It  has 
developed  in  tlie  poet  himself  an  unllinciiing  and  sustained  courage,  fortitude, 
and  perseverance  without  parallel  in  literature,  and  which  will  cast  a  peculiar 
and  permanent  glow  over  all  his  verse  in  the  future.  It  has  brought  to  his 
lielj)  a  small  minority  of  the  most  devoted  and  valiant  champions  that  ever 
fougiit  for  man  or  cause.  Best  of  all,  it  has  formed  tl  't  prefatory  foreground 
and  area  specially  needed  in  such  cases,  to  test  and  try  these  most  arrogant  and 
relentless  compositions.  P'or,  if  Leaves  of  Grass  succeed,  they  dethrone  the 
old  sovereigns,  the  long-settled  poetic  traditions  of  Asia  and  Europe,  and  com- 
pel Literature,  perhaps  Sociology  and  Politics,  to  a  more  revolutionary  ;v«iz/j- 
sance,  a  vaster  stride,  than  any  in  the  past. 


(72) 


Mr.  O'CONNOR'S  LETTER,  1883. 


Washington,  D.  C,  U.  S.  A.,  February  22d,  1883, 

Dr.  R.  M.  Bucke,  London,  Ontario,  Canada. 
Dear  Sir: 
It  is  nearly  eighteen  years  since  I  pulilisheil  the  impassioned  protest  against 
the  mean  and  monstrous  wrong  done  by  the  Hon.  James  Harlan  to  Walt 
Whitman,  which  you  ask  leave  to  reprint  in  your  Appendix.  The  warm- 
est friend  of  that  old  outburst  might  think  of  it  as  one  might  of  the  ring 
of  flame  he  had  seen  Cotopaxi  send  with  a  blast  into  the  tropic  azure — a 
burning  meteor  thrown  up  to  circle  and  shimmer  for  a  moment  in  the  upper 
air — then  vanish.  That  it  is  to  reappear  and  remain  I  shall  owe  to  you.  I 
thank  you  gratefully,  but  less  for  the  kind  personal  honor  your  request  does 
me,  than  fur  the  opportunity  you  offer  to  make  my  otherwise  ephemeral  work 
a  sharer  in  the  enduring  life  assuren  to  your  volume.  A  pamphlet  like  mine, 
—crude,  extemporaneous,  fragmenta-y,  the  birth  of  an  exigency,  the  utterance 
evoked  by  outrage,  the  voice  of  an  indignant  heart,  — is,  no  matter  what  its  cause 
or  purpose,  the  accident  of  an  hour,  and  can  ordinarily  have  but  the  hour's  exist- 
ence. This  is  sternly  true  of  far  better  compositions  of  this  class  than  mine. 
Who  reads  now  the  masterly  "Labienus"  of  Rogeard  ?  Who  remembers 
those  arrows  of  lightnings,  the  bright,  barbed  feuiUetons  of  Paul  Louis 
Courier?  Even  the  shafts  of  the  great  sagittary,  Rochefort,  are  already 
regathered  into  the  black  quiver  of  yesterday.  But  a  book,  vvith  its  long  fore- 
ground of  premeditation, — especially  a  book  with  such  a  subject,  such  an  aim 
as  yours,  and  written  from  yo*ur  vantage-ground  of  science,  and  with  your 
ardent  intelligence  and  power, — can  lay  great  bases  for  eternity.  For  my 
brochure  to  be  linked  to  such  a  one  is,  therefore,  a  pledge  of  its  perpetuity, 
and  in  this  I  feel  cause  for  satisfaction.  Not  because  of  any  merit  I  attach 
to  pages  of  whose  faults  and  deficiencies  I  am  only  too  well  aware,  and  which 
I  wish  I  had  had  time  and  ability  to  make  better,  but  because  those  pages  hold 
the  record  of  the  one  action  of  my  life  which  I  could  wish  might  never  be 
forgotten,  even  though  it  had  brought  upon  me,  and  was  still  to  bring,  every 

7  (73) 


74  Appendix  to  Part  T. 

mibforlunc  and  every  dishonor.  Long  as  I  had  revered  Walt  Wliitman,  and 
deeply  as  I  Iiad  valued  his  book,  I  had  luvir,  up  to  the  date  of  his  expulsion  from 
oftii-c,  written  a  single  line  in  his  interest,  considering,  as  I  still  consider,  both 
hint  anil  his  works  subjects  far  beyond  my  powers.  Even  the  twelve  years 
of  shamfful  persecution,  ostracism,  an<l  insult,  which  fallowed  liie  publication 
oi'  his  second  eibtion,  tlie  exclusion  of  any  specimen  of  ins  poetry  from  the 
anthologies  of  American  song,  the  closing  of  the  doors  of  all  periodicals  to 
his  contributions,  the  insolent  rejections  of  his  work  by  the  peddlers  who  call 
themselves  publishers,  the  infamous  calumnies  invented  and  set  in  circulation 
by  persons  of  repute  respecting  his  personal  conduct  and  character,  the  affec- 
tation of  shuddering  aversion  practised  in  certain  quarters  at  the  sight  of  his 
face  or  the  mention  of  his  name,  the  showered  misrepresentation  and  abuse 
of  his  poems  by  the  reviewers  and  journalists, — even  all  this  I  witnessed  and 
endured  with  as  much  composure  as  is  compatible  with  scorn,  knowing,  in  the 
noble  words  of  Eilery  Channing,  that  "  wdio  writes  by  fate  the  critics  shall 
not  kill,  nor  all  the  assassins  of  tlie  great  review,"  certain  that,  in  the  trumpet 
phrase  of  Leibnitz,  "  Anotlier  time  shall  come,  worthier  than  ours,  in  whieii, 
hatreds  being  subdued,  truth  shall  triumph,"  and  that  then  Walt  Whitman 
and  his  mighty  volume  would  fail  not  of  their  meed  of  veneration.  But  wian 
1  saw  the  poetaster  and  the  plagiary,  the  hypocrite  and  the  prude,  the  eunuch 
and  the  fop,  the  poisoner  and  the  blackguard,  the  snake  and  the  hog,  the 
gnat  and  the  midge,  all  the  creatures  of  the  marsh  and  the  coj)se,  all  tlie  ver- 
min of  the  kennel  and  the  sewer,  every  monkey  that  mops  and  mows  in  the 
curulc  chair  of  Longinus  fancying  himself  a  critic,  every  chinch  that  poses 
on  the  triclinium  of  Horace  imagining  himself  an  author — when  I  saw  tlie 
whole  paltry  and  venomous  swarm  condense,  as  in  some  tale  of  enchantment, 
into  a  demon  in  the  garb  of  an  incjuisitor; — when  the  Harlanunculi  became 
resolved  into  the  Harlan,  and  to  moral  animosity  succeeded  material  conse- 
quences;— when  I  saw  a  man  deprived  of  his  employment,  publicly  degraded, 
and  an  official  stigma  set  upon  his  name,  simply  and  only  because  lie  liad 
once,  years  before,  published  an  honest  book — and  noted  that  among  all  our 
scholars  and  literati  not  one  voice — not  a  single  on '  —was  raised  even  in  the 
faintest  deprecation  of  this  dastardly  outrage,  welcomed  instead  w  ith  the 
silence  that  gives  consent,  and  with  gibes  and  guffaws  of  approval — then  I  felt 
that  even  for  a  writer  so  inexperienced  and  obscure  as  Lthe  hour  of  duty  had 
arrived,  ai>d  in. the  pages  you  reprint  I  did  my  best,  as  I  have  said  in  another 
place,  to  secure  for  the  infamy  of  Mr.  Harlan's  action  undying  remembrance. 
It  is  because  I  did  this — it  is  because,  as  Dr.  Johnson  says,  I  did  what  no- 
body else  thought  worth  doing — that  I  am  glad  to  have  the  record  perpetuated 
in  your  volume.  Let  shame  or  credit  follow,  I  care  not  which,  nor  have  I 
ever  cared.  The  man  who  tried  to  make  an  author  suffer  for  his  book  I  tried 
to  brand  !  This  is  all  the  claim  I  make  for  my  pamphlet,  and  that  pamphlet 
is  my  act.     I  vaunt  it  and  I  stand  by 


Mr.  O Connor's  Letter— \%^i.  7$ 

1  lifivc  spoken,  you  will  remember,  of  the  hour  of  Mr.  I  larlan's  explorations 
in  tlic  Deparlnicnt,  and   I  rc^^rcl  now  th;it  in  tlic  haste  of  tlie  coniiiosilioii  I 
did  not  more  claborntely  place  this  hour  in  amber.     It  was  not  enouj^h  that 
he  chose  to  do  a  mean  and  monstrous  action  ;  the  manner  of  his  doinj;  it  was 
still  meaner  and  more  monstrous.     The  bonk  had  been  for  several  years  out 
of  jirint.    It  was  not  in  circulation.    Ihn  in  a  drawer  in  the  niithor's  desk  which 
stood  in  a  room  in  the  lower  story  of  the  Department  building,  there  was  a 
private  copy  fdled  with  pencilled  interlineations,  erasures,  annotations— the 
revisions  which  prepare  a  text  for  future  publication.     This  copy  was  the  one 
ovei  which  Mr.  Ilarlan  pored  in  the  still  hours  which  followed  the  closing  of 
the  ofiicial  day  in  the  Department.     But  it  was  in  his  own  office,  in  an  upper 
story,  that  he  pursued  these  secret  studies.     The  book  was  always  in  its  place 
in  the  author's  desk  when  he  went  home   in  the  afternoon,  and  it  was  always 
there  when  he  returned  the  next  morning.     It  was  in  the  interim  that  it  was 
upstairs.     Who  was  it  that  edged  along  the  shadowy  passages  of  the  huge 
building  from  the  Secretary's  apartment— that  quietly  slipped  down  the  dim 
stairway — that  crept,  crawled,  stole,  sneaked  into  the  deserted  room  ot  his 
illustrious  fellow-officer — that  tiptoed  up  to  the  vacant  desk — that  inU  a  fur- 
tive hand  into  the  p'.ivate  drawer  and  drew  out  the  private  volume — that  glided 
back  with  it  to  the  office  of  the  Secretary  ?     When  the  hours  of  gloating  were 
over,  and  the  building  was  darker  and  dimmer  under  its  few  funereal  gaslights, 
turned  murkily  low,  who  crept  back  down  the  dead-house  corridors  and  stair- 
ways, with  a  volume  in  his  hand,  to  the  earlier  visited  apartment,  stealthily 
replaced  the  volume  in  the  desk,  and  softly  slunk  away?     Was  it  Tartufle 
disguised  as  Aminidab  Sleek,  or  was  it  the  rampant  god  Priapus  masquerading 
a--.  Paul  Pry?      Enough  to  know  that   these  Department   explorations  and 
these  sub-rosa  examinations  resulted  in  Mr.  Ilarlan  expelling  Walt  Whitman 
from  his  position  for  having  once  upon  a  time  published  a  volume  containing 
a  little  reference  to  some  facts  in  universal  physiology.     This  reference,  it 
seems,  shocked  the  Methodist  virtue  that  had  endured  without  flinching  the 
daily  conversation  of   Lincoln — Lincoln,  under  whom  Mr.  Ilarlan  had  ac- 
cepted and  held  his  Secretaryship  —  a  President  as  soundly  good  and  as 
frankly  gross  as  Luther  or  Rabelais. 

Mr.  Ilarlan  was  the  Secretary  of  the  Department  of  the  Interior.  His 
charge  included  the  public  lands  and  the  mines,  the  interests  of  the  settlers 
and  the  diggers  of  ore,  the  fortune  and  fate  of  the  red  aborigines,  the 
awards  of  the  pensions  and  the  tracts  given  in  bounty  to  the  soldiers  and 
sailors,  the  promotion  and  safeguards  of  the  myriad  inventions  through  the 
issuance  of  their  patents,  the  mighty  task  of  the  census  when  ordered,  the 
care  of  the  national  insane  and  deaf  and  dumb,  the  supervision  of  vast  terri- 
torial interests ;  in  brief,  an  immense  part  of  the  ordinance,  prosperity  and 
development  of  the  country.  To  execute  the  public  business  under  his  care, 
he  had  three  thousand  officers.     As  Secretary,  his  conduct  of  affairs  could 


76  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

enTiance  the  welfare  of  the  nation  ;  as  statesman,  his  recommendation  could 
mould  the  future.  F"rom  all  this  lofty  mini.>,ttrial  function,  he  stooped  to  the 
meanness  and  shame  of  the  pick-pry  inquisition,  and  the  brutal  and  insolent 
expulsion  described — his  victim  a  poet  illustrious  in  the  verdict  of  the  fittest 
of  two  worlds. 

When  I  dealt  with  this  abominable  action  as  it  deserved — although  I  no 
more  than  recognized  it  in  its  obvious  character  as  an  audacious  assault  upon 
the  liberty  of  letters,  and  a  flagrant  and  enormous  breach  of  administrative 
propriety — although  I  merely  flung  the  light  upon  it  in  its  avowed  intentions 
and  proportions,  and  properly  refuted  the  pretences  upon  which  it  claimed  to 
be  justified,  by  plainly  bringing  into  opposition  the  superb  purity  and  grandeur 
of  the  poem  it  attacked,  as  certified  by  the  noblest  minds  of  two  continents, 
and  the  simple  and  sublime  life  of  the  poet  it  persecuted,  as  known  to  many 
of  his  countrymen — it  was  of  course  quite  natural  and  logical  that  ail  the 
leadii'^^Tf  literary  and  many  of  the  other  journals  in  this  country,  which  for 
years  hai:  been  devoted  to  the  defamation  of  which  Mr.  Harlan's  conduct  was 
the  bright  consummate  flower,  should  respond  by  alleging  that  I  was  making 
mountains  out  of  molehills,  that  my  censure  and  my  eulogy  were  alike  inordi- 
nate ;  and  that  they  should  enter,  as  they  did,  into  express  extenuations  and 
defences  of  the  Secretary,  coupled  with  their  littl"^  sneers  and  scoffs  at 
my  vindication  of  the  man  he  had  wionged.  You  ,  judge  of  the  force 
they  brought  to  their  task  by  the  summary  I  offer  oi  uie  points  made  upon 
me  by  the  strongest  article  of  all,  the  writer  in  this  instance  a  prosperous  and 
eminent  man.  V>y  this  literary  magnate  I  was  gravely  reminded  that  Mr. 
Hawthorne  lost  his  place  in  the  Salem  Custom  House  when  the  Whigs  came 
into  jiower,  under  our  precious  system  of  rotation  in  office,  and  hence  in  effect, 
that  the  Hon.  Mr.  Harlan's  exjnilsion  of  Walt  Whitman  was  quite  a  venial 
and  normal  act — as  like  the  Whig  dismissal  of  Hawthorne  as  one  pea  is  like 
another  pea.  I  was  coldly  informed  that  the  gross  wrong  inflicted  upon  Mr. 
Whitman  was  "the  mere  loss  of  an  office" — nothing  more — nothing  what- 
ever ;  and  I  was  made  to  feel  that  I  had  the  assurance  upon  the  honor  of  a 
refrigerator.  Furthermore,  that  this  "mere  loss  of  an  office"  furnished  no 
proper  occasion  for  such  a  denunciation  of  the  outrage,  and  such  an  apotheosis 
of  its  object,  as  were  given  in  my  pamphlet.  For  cool  ignoring  of  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  case  as  set  forth  in  my  indictment,  and  for  the  simple 
and  absolute  frigidity  of  it3  belittling  of  Mr.  Harlan's  damnable  action,  I 
think  this  article  in  compari.son  makes  Wrangel  Land  in  the  height  of  the 
Arctic  winter  an  image  of  all  that  is  bland  and  warm.  Beside  it,  the  icy 
sepulchre  itself  would  seem  a  sumn  resort  for  consumptives.  It  never 
occurs  to  the  dry  light  of  mind  of  this  just  ;'nd  intelligent  critic,  taking  him 
on  his  own  chosen  ground,  that  there  would  have  been  some  difference 
between  Hawthorne  civilly  dismissed  from  <  <  c  because  of  a  change  of  ad- 
ministration, and  Hawthorne  brutally  expelled  with  ignominy,  becaubc  he  had 


Mr.  O'Connor's  Letter — 1883.  'j'j 

celebrated  (some  think  covertly  justified),  in  the  sombre  and  splendid  pages 
of  the  "  Scarlet  Letter,"  the   adultery  of  Arthur  Dimmesdale  and   Hester 
Prynne.     It  never  occurs  to  this  icily  brilliant  reviewer  that  expulsion  for 
such  a  cause  would  be  necessary  to  establish  parity  between  Hawthorne's 
case  and  Walt  Whitman's — and  of  course  he  never  so  much  as  glances  side- 
long at  the  consideration  of  the  "enormous  uproar  an  expulsion  on  account  of 
the  "  Scarlet  Letter"  would  have  created,  though  nobody  knew  this  better 
than   he.     It  never  dawns  for  a  moment  on  this  prosperous  and  well-fed 
gentleman  that  to  a  poor  man,  hunted  then  lay  our  literary  ku-klux,  almost 
outlawed  at  that  t'me  liy  the  Kemper-county  gang  who  carry  out  the  shot-gun 
policy  in  our  literature  and  journalism,  "  the  mere  loss  of  an  office"  might  cut 
off  the  means  of  subsistence,  and  be  no  matter  for  whiffling  away  as  a  mere 
trifle.     But  why  comment?     Did  he  ever  really  think,  or  any  of  his  tribe, 
that  the  expulsion  of  an  author  from  a  public  employment  on  account  of  his 
book  could  be  made  to  appear  a  small  matter?     While  such  as  I  are  in  the 
world,  it  can  never  be  a  small  matter;  it  will  always  be  a  great  matter,  and 
among  the  greatest  of  great  matters,  in  the  lasting  verdict  of  every  man  and 
woman  who  knows  the  relation  of  thought  to  life,  of  books  to  the  fortunes  of 
mankind.     Suppose  Chaucer  had  been  ejected  from  his  post  of  Comptroller 
of  Customs  under  the  third  Edward,  on  account  of  some  of  that  ouiragcous 
Gallo-Saxon  license  of  conception  and  expression  which  so  often  wantons  in 
his  pages.     Does  any  one  fancy  that  our  scholars  and  essayists,  even  at  the 
distance  of  six  centuries,  would  treat  the  incident  coolly,  or  as  of  no  import- 
ance?    Suppose  Defoe,  on  account  of  the  broad  pictures  in  "  Moll  Flanders," 
or  the  "  Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,"  had  been  deprived  of  any  one  of  his  employ- 
ments under  William  or  Anne.    What  sympathy  or  defence  would  the  minister 
get  that  did  it,  from  the  biographers  of  the  creator  of  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  ? 
Suppose  Charles  Lamb  had  been  fired  out  of  his  clerkship  in  the  India  House, 
because  of  his  defence  of  the  fairy  obscenities  of  l''ar(|uhar  and  Wycherly  ? 
Wouldn't  there  be  heat  in  the  blood  of  London  in  the  Old  World,  and  Boston 
in  the  New,  over  the  record  that  such  a  thing  had  ever  been  done  to  sweet 
old  Klia?     Suppose  Burns  had  tjeen  considered,  in  the  holy  name  of  virluc, 
cliastily,   decency.    Christian   civilization,   morally   unfit  to   measure    Scotch 
malt   forever,  and   turned  out  of  his  gaugership  because  of  the  ithyphallic 
audacities  he  showered  on  the  Scotch  Harlans  in  "  Holy  Willie's  Prayer"! 
Wouldn't  literature  ring  with  the  outrage?     Yea,  verily;  and  well  do  the 
literati  know  it,  who  tried  to  make  out  that  Mr.  Harlan's  immortal  din^race 
was  the  merest  bagatelle,  and  mocked  at  my  pamphlet  as  one  of  the  curios'-- 
ties  of  literature  because  it  denounced  his  action  on  the  scale  of  its  | Dper 
magnitude. 

Enough  said,  both  of  him  and  them.  "A  dog's  obeyed  in  office,"  but  the 
next  one  the  humor  of  politics  dresses  up  for  a  Secretary's  chair,  like  Toby  in 
a  Punch  and  Judy  sliuw,  will  think  seriously  before  he  gives  an  order  for  the 


78  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

expulsion  of  an  author  on  account  of  the  book  he  had  once  published.  The 
piospect  both  for  Mr.  Harlan  and  his  literary  apologists  grows  steadily  worse 
as  time  goes  on,  and  the  character  and  value  of  Walt  Whitman's  book  become 
established.  This  is  no  case  of  an  abuse  of  power  practised  upon  an  author 
of  the  grade  of  Chaucer,  or  Defoe,  or  Lamb,  or  Burns,  The  gross  wrong 
done  by  Mr.  Harlan  was  done  to  a  poet  whom  all  time  and  every  land  will 
remember,  and  the  dimensions  of  the  insult  and  the  outrage  will  be  gauged 
by  the  measure  of  that  universal  and  eternal  fame.  Whatever  basis  the  con- 
temptible scribblers  of  the  day  gave  it,  steadily  crumbles.  It  is  not  in  the 
nature  of  things,  it  is  not  in  the  control  of  the  whole  Dunciad,  that  the  vast 
and  sane  affirmations,  the  simple  and  gorgeous  beauty,  the  biblical  and  demi- 
urgic power  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  can  continue  to  be  themes  for  the  ass  reviewer's 
blattering  bray.  All  the  literati  that  ever  hee-hawed  from  the  rick  m  their  prior 
existence,  before  the  metempsychosis  which  placed  them  in  the  chairs  of  criti- 
cism to  continue  their  symphonies,  cannot  drown  the  omni-prevalent  voice  of 
a  work  of  genius.  I  remember  a  scene  long  ago  in  Faneuil  Hall,  when  an 
attempt  was  made  to  silence  a  matchless  orator,  the  incomparable  Wendell 
Phillips,  then  in  the  prime  of  his  indescribable  forensic  powers.  He  stood 
that  evening  in  the  full  relief  of  his  severe  grace  and  beauty  upon  the  lighted 
platform  of  the  historic  hall — from  brow  to  foot  all  noble,  like  those  knights 
of  Venice  Ruskin  describes;  the  vast  floor  and  galleries  before  and  around 
him  densely  thronged;  and  central  in  the  audience  was  a  mob  of  stevedores 
and  truckmen,  the  hired  Alsatia  of  that  class  of  merchants  whose  truckling 
servility  to  the  Slave  Power  nourished  in  it  the  strength  for  rebellion,  and  at 
length  brought  on  our  Civil  War.  The  moment  the  orator  began,  this  swarm 
of  hirelings  became  a  roaring  maelstrom;  they  whirled  around  en  masse 
without  cessation  in  the  middle  of  the  concourse,  yelling,  howling,  shouting, 
without  a  moment's  intermission,  and  for  some  time  the  noise  was  deafening. 
But,  gradually,  amidst  the  tumult  there  was  heard  something  marv^lV  as.  The 
orator  had  continued  speaking  with  tranquil  composure, — with  hiseas),ahj  -sit 
careless  grace, — with  that  memorable  beauty  of  tone  and  demeanor  veiling 
earnest  feeling,  as  a  Phidian  vase  might  veil  the  Delphic  fire  within;  and 
above  the  hoarse,  unintermilted,  tremendous  uproar  of  the  mob,  in  its  precon- 
certed continuity,  was  heard  his  quiet  voice  I  I  never  can  forget  the  thrill  it 
gave  me.  Not  a  word,  not  an  accent  was  lost.  Even  the  mob  heard  it,  and 
strained  their  bull-throats  to  drown  it.  In  vain.  Paramount  over  all  the 
clamor,  that  sweet  and  penetrating  tone  was  heard,  silverly  asserting  itself  in 
even  and  unintc.'rru[)ted  flow,  as  clear  and  alien  as  the  notes  of  the  nightingale 
above  the  brawl  of  a  flooded  gorge;  and  it  went  on  until  it  conquered  wholly, 
and  in  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sublime  roar  of  acclamations,  the  splendid 
fountain  of  that  eUKpience  was  streaming  upward  in  full  silver  t^ower.  So 
dominant  above  the  animal  tumult  of  its  defamers,  so  conquering  and  to  con- 
quer,  is  the  voicc'of  the  book  we  champion.     Over  the  clamor  of  the  whole 


Mr.  O'Connof^s  Letter — 1883.  79 

menaperie  it  is  li'.arcl  by  the  minds  it  lias  enlightened,  the  hearts  it  has  com- 
forted, tlie  souls  it  has  deeply  stirred,  and  this  voiceless  multitude  is  the  van- 
guard of  the  future. 

Meanwhile  the  book  has  achieved  the  vantage-ground,  hardly  less  valuable 
than  its  cordial  recognition  in  certain  quarters,  of  having  been  regularly  bid  for 
and  issued  by  a  business  house,  instead  of  being  published,  as  previously,  by 
its  author  only.  It  is  an  advance,  which  should,  for  th?  honor  of  our  letters, 
be  complemented  by  a  corresponding  change  in  the  tone  of  criticism.  But  the 
welcome  given  the  reappearance  of  the  work  proves,  that,  even  after  the  lapse 
of  twenty  years,  our  reviews  are  in  the  same  hands — that  is  to  say,  paws.  The 
criticisms  are,  to  be  sure,  somewhat  improved  since  the  former  day  when  a 
filthy  and  malignant  philistine  in  the  London  "  Saturday  Review"  wrote  that 
the  author  deserved  to  be  scourged  at  the  tail  of  the  hangman's  cart  by  the 
public  executioner.  Whoever  seeks  the  missing  link  between  the  libidinous 
swell  and  the  ferocious  chimpanzee,  might  find  it  in  this  noble  and  decent 
criticaster.  This  amenity  of  criticism  was  prompted  by  the  series  of  poems 
entitled  "  Children  of  Adam;"  and  you  know  what  physiologic  dignity,  what 
sanctities  of  purely  human  love  and  passion,  what  savor  of  natural  sanity, 
what  wealth  of  esoteric  communication,  what  rapture  of  moral  elevation, 
what  adumbrations  of  holiness,  are  enshrined  within  those  glorious  verses,  and 
give  them  their  magnetic  scope  and  fervor.  They  had  the  added  honor  some 
years  afterward  of  causing  one  of  Astor's  gentlemen,  who  sometimes  obscurely 
and  feebly  paddles  in  Castaly,  to  style  their  venerable  author  v.  ith  fme  scorn, 
•'  this  swan  of  the  sewers."  I  could  retort  upon  Dr.  Macnobody  that  he  is  \ 
buzzard  of  the  club-house  kitchen,  but  this  might  be  thought  personal.  Of 
the  more  recent  notices  it  may  be  remarked  that  they  are  generally  less  poign- 
ant and  more  dull  than  their  old  prototypes.  Some  of  them,  as  in  the 
*'  Atlantic  Monthly,"  show  instinctively  cordial  perceptions  quenched  in  abject 
cowardice.  The  review  in  the  New  York  "Times,"  :auJ;ed  by  great  talent, 
is  a  singular  example  of  stultification,  the  writer  diplomatically  annulling  in 
one  passage  what  he  has  just  said  in  another,  this  process  being  pursued 
throughout  with  a  mechanical  uniformity  which  is  simply  comical.  The  one 
in  the  '•  Nation"  is  in  artistic  keeping  with  the  tone  of  that  chilly  journal,  and 
is  otherwise  only  noticeable  for  its  cold  and  brutal  falsehoods.  One  of  its  in- 
dictments appears  again  in  an  article  in  "  The  Woman's  Journal,"  signed  with 
the  initials  ot  the  Rev.  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson.  The  exceeding  value 
of  this  accusation  warrants  its  reproduction,  and  also  its  rescue  from  the  ob- 
livion of  the  anonymous.  What, think  you,  is  this  weighty  finding?  Actually, 
now — really,  now — Mr.  Higginson  avers  thot  Walt  Whitman  ought  to  become 
the  focal  point  of  niillion-rmgired  scorn  for  having  servetl  in  the  hospitals  !  It 
appears  that  the  old  poet  performed  a  pathetic,  a  sublime,  an  immortal  service 
— he  tended  the  wounded  and  dying  soldiers  throughout  the  whole  war,  and 
for  years  afterward,  until  the  last  hospital  disappeared.     O,  but  tliib  was  in- 


8o  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

famous !  Shame  on  such  "  unmanly  manhood,"  yells  the  Rev.  Mr.  Higginson  ! 
He  should  have  personally  "  followed  the  drum,"  declares  this  soldier  of  the 
army  of  the  Lord,  himself  a  volunteer  colonel.  In  bald  words,  instead  of 
volunteering  for  the  ghastly,  the  mournful,  the  perilous  labors  of  those  swarm- 
ing infernos,  the  hospitals,  Walt  Whitman  should  have  enlisted  in  the  rank 
and  file.  From  all  which,  I  gather  that  Mr.  liigginson  would  have  cast  a 
stone  at  Jean  Valjean  for  going  down  without  a  musket  into  the  barri- 
cades. I  beg  leave  to  tell  this  reverend  mili'aire  that  if  Longfellow  had  gone 
from  Cambridge  to  serve  in  the  hospitals,  as  Walt  Whitman  served,  the  land 
•would  have  rung  from  end  to  end,  anil  there  would  have  been  no  objurgations 
on  his  not  enlisting  in  the  army,  from  *he  pen  of  thj  Rev.  Thomas  Wentworth 
Higginson.  I  dso  beg  leave  to  tell  him,  since  he  brings  personalities  into 
fashion,  that  Walt  Whitman's  work  of  comfort  and  charity  beside  the  cots  of 
the  Union  and  rebel  soldiers,  will  last  as  long,  and  stand  as  fair,  as  the  mili- 
tary bungling  and  blundering  which  distinguished  this  clergyman  turned 
colonel,  and  evoked  such  agonized  curses  from  his  commanding  officer  at 
Port  Royal,  Better  be  a  good  nurse  like  Walt  Whitman,  than  a  nondescript 
warrior  like  the  Rev.  Col.  Higginson. 

The  remainder  of  his  article  is  quite  taken  up  with  an  attack  upon  a  few 
erotic  verses  in  Oscar  Wilde's  poems,  about  which  Mr.  Higginson,  as  badly  read 
as  badly  bred,  says  there  is  '•  nothing  Greek,"  because  they  do  not  "  suggest  the 
sacred  whiteness  of  an  antique  statue,"  although,  as  Mr.  Higginson  ought  to 
know,  there  is  a  mass  of  literature,  ranging  from  Aristophanes,  Anacreon,  Sap- 
pho, Longus,  etc.,  to  such  as  Mimncrmus  and  Alcman,  which  they  do  suggest, 
and  which  Mr.  Hii^'ginson  could  hardly  describe  as  having  "nothing  Greek," 
but  which  could  give  Mr.  Wilde  a  good  many  points  in  erotic  composition,  if 
that  has  anything  to  do  with  making  him  Hellenic.  On  the  strength  of  these 
poetic  audacities  of  Mr.  Wilde,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Higginson  lumps  him  in  with  Walt 
Whitman  for  reprobation,  holding  them  both  up  in  contrast  with  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  whom  he  apjiears  to  consider  the  proper  model  of  a  poet,  and  calls 
(([uoting  Fulke  Greville,  I  suppose),  "  a  brave  example  of  virtue  and  religion." 
I  read  this  effusion  with  infinite  amusement.  Is  it  credible  that  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Higginson  has  never  seen  the  "  Astrophcl  and  Stella"  of  that  very  Sir  Philip 
Sidney  he  vaunts  so  roundly  ?  He  puts  on  the  face  of  Nightgall  the  jailor, 
Sorrocold  the  torturer,  Mauger  the  headsman,  Mawworm  the  gospeller,  and 
Moddles  the  weeper,  all  in  one — he  is  dark,  cruel,  implacable,  denunciatory, 
and  disconsolate,  all  together — over  the  terr'ble  fact  that  "the  poems  of 
Wilde  and  Whitman  lie  in  ladies'  boudoirs."  Does  he  think  that  the  "  Astro- 
jthe!  and  Stella"  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  is  the  sort  of  poem  that  ought  prefer- 
ably to  "  lie  in  ladies'  boudoirs"  ?  This  work,  a  galaxy  of  songs  and  sonnets, 
some  K)f  them  tx(iuisite,  was  inspired,  be  it  remembered,  by  a  married  woman, 
Lady  Rich,  who  ligurcs  in  it  as  Stella,  and  is  addressed  by  Sidney  as  Astro- 
phel.     The  husband,  Lord  Rich,  is  repeatedly  mentioned  in  terms  of  the  ul- 


Mr.  O'Connor's  Letter— iSS$.  8i 

most  contumely  and  insult.  In  one  of  the  songs  (the  second)  the  fourth  stanza 
of  which  is  specially  lascivious,  the  poet  limns  in  glowing  terms  the  lovely 
wife  sleeping,  steals  a  voluptuous  kiss,  and  blames  himself  for  not  having  taken 
the  extremest  advantage  of  her  slumber!  In  another  song  (the  fourth)  there 
is  protracted  and  vehement  amorous  solicitation  for  her  person  to  be  yielded 
to  him,  ending  with  a  strain  of  whimpering  dejection  because  of  her  refusal! 
The  eighth  song  is  in  a  similar  style.  In  the  fifty-second  sonnet  he  fables  a 
contest  between  Virtue  and  Love  for  the  possession  of  Stella,  which  he  pro- 
poses to  settle  by  letting  Virtue  have  the  lady  on  the  condition  that  her  volup- 
tuous body  be  yielded  to  Love  and  him !  In  the  tenth  song  his  thought 
dwells  in  gloating  anticipation  of  carnal  enjoyment  with  her,  and  runs  and 
revels  in  a  rosy  riot  of  amorous  images,  prolonged  through  half  a  hundred 
lines  !  These  are  specimens  of  the  staple  of  the  poetry  this  virtuous  clergyman 
would  seem  to  choose  for  the  accompaniment  of  ladies' boudoirs!  Ah,  Mr. 
Higginson!  it  will  take  the  effacing  memories  of  Zutphen — it  will  take  some 
of  the  immortal  water  the  dying  Sidney  yielded  from  his  flask  to  the  parched 
lips  of  the  wounded  soldier,  to  wash  away,  for  some  of  us,  from  the  fame  of 
one  of  the  last  of  England's  chevaliers,  the  stain  of  these  disgraceful  poems — 
poems  which  dishonor  the  wife  while  they  insult  the  husband,  and  whose 
author  is  nevertheless  your  chosen  exemplar  of  manly  excellence — brought 
forward  to  shame  by  contrast  Oscar  Wilde  for  the  sin  of  publishing  a  few 
verses  far  less  bold  than  the  verses  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Donne,  or  the  "  Venus  and 
Adonis"  of  Shakespeare — brought  forward  also  to  darken  Walt  Whitman  be- 
cause in  a  few  of  his  lines  he  has  celebrated  with  grave  simplicity  the  noble 
amative  impulse  great  Nature  feels  forever  through  all  her  immensity  !  So 
much  for  the  criticism  wherewith  the  Rev.  Mr.  Higginson  decorates  "  The 
Woman's  Journal." 

As  for  the  review  in  the  "  New  York  Tribune,"  it  would  seem  to  have 
been  written,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  says  "  Amadis  de  Gaul "  was  written, 
in  a  brothel.  The  writer  leads  off  by  saying  that  the  poems  have  '*  been  read 
behind  the  door; "  that  "  they  have  been  vaunted  extravagantly  by  a  band  of 
extravagant  disciples,  and  the  possessors  of  the  books  have  kept  them  locked 
up  from  the  family;"  which  makes  you  think  that  the  critic  is  simply,  as  the 
Hon.  Thomas  H.  Benton  called  Pettee,  "  a  great  liar  and  a  dirty  dog,"  until, 
reading  further,  you  find  him  declaring  that  the  book,  which  he  has  already 
elegantly  called  "the  slop-bucket  of  Walt  Whitman,"  has  for  a  principle  "a 
belief  in  the  prcciousness  of  filth,"  is  "  entirely  Ijestial,"  full  of  "  nr.stiness  and 
animal  insensibility  to  shame,"  and  that  the  chief  question  it  raises  "is 
whether  anybody,  even  a  poet,  ought  to  take  off  his  trousers  in  the  market- 
place ;  "  which  makes  you  at  once  set  down  the  reviewer  as  indubitably,  in 
the  phrase  of  the  moralist  Ilawkesworth,  "  a  lewd  young  fellow,"  and  "  a 
great  liar  and  a  dirty  dog  "  besides.  The  whole  article  is  thoroughly  obscene. 
It  is  characterized  throughout  by  what  might  be  called  the  indecent  exposure 


82  Appendix  to  Part  I, 

of  the  mind,  and  is  a  disgrace  to  even  its  author  and  to  the  journal  in  which  it 
appears. 

Better  and  Averse  than  the  stuff  these  scurrilous  dreams  are  made  of  is  an 
article  by  Mr.  Clarence  Cook,  in  the  "  International  Review,"  which  I  have 
read  with  mingled  feelings  of  regret  and  indignation.  It  is  almost  incredible 
to  find  tliis  gentleman,  who  ought  l)y  his  int(dlcctual  connections  to  be  better 
informed,  and  who  should  have  education  enough  co  know  the  truth  without 
information,  asserting  and  assuming  through  his  whole  essay  that  Leaves  of 
Grass  is  a  derivation  from  the  writings  of  Emerson.  He  savb  that  the  prose 
preface  to  the  original  edition  of  the  poem  shows  "  where  the  author  came  from 
intellectually  ;"  that  "  Mr.  Whitman  had  been  for  a  longtime  milking  the  New 
England  tr.inscendentalists,"  and  that  "  most  of  it  is  an  echo  of  Emerson  him- 
self, minus  his  music  and  his  wit,"  Furthermore,  that  Walt  Whitman  in  his 
poetry  "  does  nothing  more  than  enlarge  and  exaggerate  the  '  Nature  '  and  the 
first  volume  of  '  Ebsays,'  of  his  master."  It  was  long  ago  published  authenti- 
cally in  Mr.  Conway's  widely  copied  and  circulated  article,  what  is  the  fact, 
that  Walt  Whitman  had  never  read  Emerson  at  all  until  after  the  publication 
of  his  first  edition;  and  he  was  quite  as  mnocent  of  any  knowledge  of  the 
papers  in  the  "  Dial,"  despite  the  preface  which  Mr.  Cook  fancies  an  echo  of 
Emerson  and  Concord.  But  he  /tad  xca.<\  Kant,  Schelling,  Fichte,  and  Hegel, 
as  Mr.  Cook,  if  he  had  taken  the  trouble  to  read  the  book  he  was  reviewing, 
could  have  seen  plainly,  and  the  thought  of  that  giant  quaternion,  which,  in 
fact,  is  rather  an  expression  of  what  is  in  the  minds  of  all  men  in  our  age,  than  any- 
thing that  has  been  communicated  to  them  by  the  four  philosophers,  is  precisely 
the  thought  of  which  Mr.  Emerson,  in  this  country,  like  Cousin  in  France,  is,  in 
his  writings,  without  any  derogation  to  his  own  proper  originality,  the  carrier 
or  interpreter ;  so  that  all  the  indebtedness  Mr.  Cook  oracularly  fancies,  is 
referable  to  the  German  source  both  minds  had  drunk  from,  though  in  Walt 
Whitman's  case  it  is  easy  to  see  that  his  own  powerful  and  sensitive  genius, 
naturally  in  rapport  with  the  thought  of  his  age,  far  better  accounts  for  the 
ideas  of  his  book  than  any  acquaintance  with  the  well-heads  of  modern  phi- 
losophy. This  ridiculous  notion  of  Leaves  of  Grass  as  a  sort  of  rowdy  ampli- 
fication of  Emerson,  began  twenty  years  ago  with  some  amusing  persiflage  in 
"  Putnam's  Magazine  " — the  harmless  fancy  of  my  old  friend  Mr.  George 
William  Curtis,  who  sometimes  softly,  sweetly,  slips  into  ad  captandums  with 
irresponsible  indolent  grace.  It  was  taken  up  again,  and  enforced,  not  at  all 
harmlessly,  but  with  malicious  iteration,  by  Mr.  Bayard  Taylor,  in  a  series  of  gra- 
tuitous and  inappr'^priate  editorials,  published  seven  years  ago  in  the  "  New 
York  Tril)une,"  with  the  object  of  breaking  down  a  certain  movement  in  behalf 
of  Mr.  Wiiitman,  and  it  gave  me  then,  in  conjunction  with  some  of  his  other 
representations,  a  new  idea  of  what  might  be  meant  by  the  okl  saying  tliat  "  a 
tailor  is  the  ninth  part  of  a  man."  Now  it  comes  up  again,  with  the  perti- 
nacity of  wood-wax  or  the  Canada  thistle,  among  a  lot  of  similar  superstitions, 


Mr.  O'Connor's  Letter— \^%i.  83 

in  this  "  International  Review  "  article,  making  me  think  of  the  Spanish 
proverb,  "  God  sends  meat,  but  the  devil  sends  cooks."  The  meat  is  Leaves 
0/  (J I  ass.,  and  the  .xsthetic  Clarence  being  cuisinier,  a  nice  dish  he  makes  of 
it,  with  his  bogus  recipes  !  Did  it  ever  occur  to  any  of  these  gentlem.en  who 
derive  Wall  Whitman's  thought  from  Emerson's,  to  compare  the  two  in  their 
palpable  and  tremendous  dissimilarities?  Where,  for  one  instance  out  of  a 
hundred,  is  the  pantheistic  doctrine  in  the  Leaves,  which  is  the  constant  asser- 
tion and  implication  in  the  Essays?  Where,  for  another  instance,  do  you  find 
in  I'mcrson  the  haughty  an<l  rejoicing  faith  in  the  immortality  of  tl'c  personal 
soul,  which  peals  from  end  to  end  of  Leaves  of  Grass  like  the  trumpet  of  the 
resurrection?  It  would  be  well  for  Mr.  Clarence  Cook's  reputation  as  a 
critic,  if  the  utter  sciolism  his  dealing  with  this  branch  of  his  subject  betrays, 
had  no  worse  concomitants.  But  he  goes  on,  and  dropping  into  apologies  in 
a  friendly  way,  he  slips  in  as  their  basis  a  string  of  defamations  regarding  the 
noble  frankness  of  those  passages  of  the  book  in  which  Emerson  found  "  the 
courage  of  treatment  which  so  delights  us,  and  which  large  perception  only 
can  inspire."  In  the  face  of  this  imprimatur  he  has  the  Himalayan  effronte.y 
to  represent  that  Emerson  was  originally  "in  the  maible  purity  of  his  mind" 
very  much  shocked  at  these  passages.  "At  first,"  says  Mr.  Cook,  "he  could 
not  see  the  wood-god  for  his  phallus."  I  beg  to  compliment  Mr.  Cook  on  the 
marble  purity  of  this  image,  which  does  not,  however,  precisely  remind  one 
of  the  marble  faun,  nor  of  the  good  satyr  the  poet  heard  playing  his  flute  in 
the  heart  of  the  twilight  on  Mount  Janiculum. 

But  Mr.  Cook's  metaphors  concern  me  less  than  his  calumnies,  and  I  would 
really  like  to  know  what  evidence  he  has  that  Emerson  was  ever,  first  or  last, 
shocked  at  Walt  Whitman's  volume.  For  in  proof  of  his  bold  assertion  he 
advances  not  one  word.  "  Later,"  he  continues,  "  Emerson  wrote  a  letter  to 
Whitman,  in  which  he  said,  '  I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career ' — " 
and  the  ice  being  thin  here,  he  deftly  skates  away  into  an  old  worn-out  imper- 
tinence about  Mr.  Whitman's  "breach  of  confidence,"  as  he  calls  it,  in  print- 
ing this  sentence  from  a  communication  not  confidential  "in  letters  of  gold  on 
the  back  of  a  new  edition  of  his  book,"  as  it  certainly  deserved  to  be  printed, 
and  as  Mr.  Whitman  had  an  unquestionable  right  to  print  it.  But  this  letter 
of  Emerson's  in  which  he  expressed  his  cool,  deliberate  judgment  of  Leaves 
of  Grass,  and  told  jirecisely  how  it  affected  him,  what  was  it,  and  why  did  he 
not  bring  it  forward?  Here  it  is,  and  I  invite  you  and  your  readers  to  decide 
whether  it  'bears  out,  by  any  expression  or  implication,  Mr.  Clarence  Cook's 
misrepresentations : 

"  I  am  not  blind  to  the  M-orth  of  the  wonderful  gift  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  I 
"  find  it  the  most  extraordinary  piece  of  wit  and  wisdom  that  America  has  yet 
"  contributed.  I  am  very  happy  in  reading  it,  as  great  power  makes  us  happy. 
"  It  meets  the  demand  I  am  always  making  of  what  seemed  the  sterile  and 


84  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

"stingy  nature,  as  if  too  much  handiwork,  or  too  much  lymph  in  the  tem- 
"perament,  were  making  our  Western  wits  fat  and  mean. 

"  1  give  you  joy  of  your  free  and  brave  thouglit.  I  have  great  joy  in  it. 
"  I  find  incomparable  things  said  incomparably  well,  as  they  must  be.  I  find 
•'  the  courage  of  treatment  which  so  delights  us,  and  which  large  perception 
"  only  can  inspire. 

"  I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career,  which  yet  must  have  hud 
*'  a  long  foreground  somewhere,  for  such  a  start.  I  rubbed  my  eyes  a  little 
"to  see  if  this  sunbeam  were  no  illusion;  but  the  solid  sense  of  the  book  is  a 
"  sober  certainty.  It  has  the  best  merits,  namely,  of  fortifying  and  encour- 
"  aging." 

This  was  Mr.  Emerson's  judgment  on  Leaves  of  Grass,  and  never,  to  his 
undying  honor,  did  he  retract  it.  I  call  your  attention  to  its  scope,  its  abso- 
lute comprehensiveness.  If  there  was  anything  in  the  book  of  which  he  dis- 
approved he  had  the  plain  opportunity  to  say  so,  and  it  was  his  imperative 
duty  to  say  so.  On  the  contrary,  he  gives  the  poem — he  gives  the  very  edition 
of  it  Mr.  Cook  says  had  shocked  him — the  most  unreserved,  the  most  unqual- 
ified, the  most  unbounded  approval.  lie  calls  it  the  most  extraordinary  piece 
of  intellect  and  wisdom  America  has  yet  contributed;  he  congratulates  the 
author  on  the  liberty  and  valor  of  his  thought;  and  he  finds  especial  delight 
in  the  courage  of  treatment  which  marks  the  whole  performance, and  which,  he 
says,  and  Walt  Whitman's  critics  would  do  well  to  remember,  lajge  perception 
only  can  inspire.  This  is  the  proof  Mr.  Cook  shies  from  supplying,  of  the 
way  Leaves  of  Grass  "shocked"  Mr.  Emerson!  lie  has  no  other,  for  the 
sentence  he  ascribes  to  Mr.  Emerson  as  his  judgment  upon  the  book  or  its 
author — "  Strange  that  a  man  with  the  brain  of  a  god  should  have  a  snout 
like  a  hog  " — was  never  uttered  by  Emerson  at  all.  In  a  matter  of  this  im- 
portance I  insist  upon  the  purity  of  the  text,  and  Mr.  Cook  has  reported  this 
flashing  moment  of  the  wise  wrong.  The  mot  as  it  was  really  uttered  ran 
thus,  "  Strange  that  a  man  should  have  the  brain  of  a  god  and  the  snout  of 
a  hog,"  and  in  this  shape  it  was  said  of  Walt  Whitman  by  Mr.  E.  P.Whipple 
in  1855  or  thereabouts,  and  reported  to  me,  with  great  glee,  fresh  from  his 
lips,  by  one  of  his  dear  friends,  who  afterwards  ran  away  wiih  the  trust  funds 
ar.d  beggared  the  widow  and  the  orphan — a  natural  consequence  of  his  delight 
in  such  sarcasms.  The  habit  of  murder,  De  Quincey  warns  us,  inevitably 
leads  to  procrastination  and  Sabbath-breaking,  and  a  man  who  admires  Mr. 
Whipple's  wit  may  be  expected,  sooner  or  later,  to  make  off  with  the  cash  of 
the  community.  I  will  only  remark  upon  this  particular  y^-w  d'' esprit  that  in 
its  vitreous  brilliancy,  and  the  perfect  moral  absurdity  of  its  antithesis,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  falsehood  of  its  application,  it  is  entirely  worthy  of  its  true 
author,  and  I  leave  Mr.  Cook  to  its  continued  enjoyment.  But  I  assure  him 
that  his  success  in  the  correct  ascription  of  epigram  is  not  such  as  to  inspire 
me  with  an  unfaltering  trust  that  Wendell  Phillips  uttered  the  pleasantry  he 


Mr.  O'Connor's  Letter— i^Zt,.  8$ 

attributes  in  turn  to  him.  When  I  gratefully  remember  that  Mr.  Phillips 
wrote  me  that  he  placed  Walt  Whitman's  "  Democratic  Vistas "  in  equal 
honor  on  the  same  shelf  with  his  beloved  Tocqueville,  and  when  I  recall  with 
equal  gratitude  the  glowing  and  ample  welcome  he  gave  my  pamphlet  defence 
of  the  slandered  poet,  I  have  little  reason  to  assume  on  Mr.  Cook's  authority 
that  that  clear  and  generous  voice  expressed  even  the  light  disparagement  tlie 
reviewer  puts  into  currency.  Still,  Mr.  Cook  may  claim  something  from  my 
bounty,  and  I  will  give  him  this  as  a  donation.  Let  me  suppose  that  Mr. 
Phillips,  in  his  own  enchanting  fashion,  really  did  say  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  as 
our  gossip  reports  him — "  here  be  all  sorts  of  leaves  except  fig  leaves" — but 
added  with  a  grnvcr  modulation,  "  including  those  of  the  Tree  of  Life,  whose 
leaves  are  for  the  healing  of  the  nations"!  That  this  is  the  true  version, 
though  a  guess,  I  will  venture  my  last  obolus,  and  go  in  debt  to  Charon ! 

Of  Mr.  Cook's  remaining  "  International"  excursions  in  criticism,  it  is  not 
necessary  to  say  anything.  When  he  declares  the  poem  destitute  of  beauty 
and  proportion,  and  absolutely  wanting  in  art,  I  might  remind  him  that  Rus- 
kin,  who  is  a  tolerable  authority  in  these  respects,  having  forgotten  consider- 
ably more  of  a;sthetic  law  than  Mr.  Cook  ever  knew,  has  recently,  if  the 
public  journals  say  truly,  uttered  a  eulogium  upon  Leaves  of  Grass,  which 
hardly  sustains  this  weighty  dictum.  When  he  charges  as  the  "  worst  fault  of 
all"  in  the  book  "its  absolute  want  of  humor,"  I  might  venture  to  suggest 
that,  although  the  rich  mirthful  temperament  of  the  author,  which  all  who 
know  him  know  well,  is  evident  enough  in  the  opulent  cheerfulness  and  the 
mellow  tone  of  his  work.  Leaves  of  Grass  is  not,  as  Mr.  Cook  appears  to  fancy, 
an  attempt  at  comedy,  nor  can  it  be  considered  the  "  worst  fault  of  all  "  that 
we  do  not  split  our  sides  wilh  laughter  over  the  book  of  Isaiah.  When  he 
pronounces  the  work  utterly  "  without  taste,"  I  could  retort  upon  him  that 
there  are  only  ten  baskets  of  taste  let  down  from  heaven  for  each  generation, 
and  he  and  nimble  men  like  him  have  always  got  them  all,  which  is  probably 
the  reason  why  none  of  the  great  geniuses  in  poetry  ever  had  any,  from  Aris- 
tophanes to  Moliere,  or  from  ^schylus  to  Victor  Hugo.  But  there  is  only  one 
point  upon  which  I  care  to  offer  a  serious  comment.  In  speaking  of  the  first 
issue  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  Mr.  Cook  says  that  in  it  was  expressed  "  scorn  of 
the  conventions  of  society  by  one  who  never  knew  them,  and  was  as  ignorant 
of  society  as  a  Digger  Indian."  When  I  came  upon  this  stroke  of  ignorant 
insolence  I  felt  my  blood  stir,  and  Mr.  Cook  owes  it  to  my  forbearance  if  I 
do  not  make  him  feel  what  resources  the  English  language  has  for  the  chas- 
tisement of  offences  of  this  description.  What  does  he  mean  by  publishing 
as  a  species  of  Yahoo  a  man  who  all  his  life  has  been  the  honor  and  ornament 
of  society  as  good  as  Mr.  Cook  ever  entered  ?  whose  high  spiritual  cultivation 
is  as  apparent  in  his  personal  manners  as  in  his  poetry;  and  who  never,  even 
in  thought,  could  be  guilty  of  such  insufferable  low-breeding  as  this  sentence 
of  his  critic  displays?     I  remember,  years  ago,  the  eminent  son  of  the  most 


86  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

eminent  man  in  New  England,  at  the  very  top  of  the  highest  and  most  exclu- 
sive Boston  society,  coming  from  his  first  interview  with  Walt  Whitman, 
whom  he  had  met  with  distrust  and  prejudice,  and  all  we  could  get  from  him 
as  to  what  had  passed  was  the  abstracted,  iterated  rejoinder,  the  expression  of 
his  prevailing  impression — "  He  is  a  perfect  gentleman."  In  his  young  man- 
hood Walt  Whitman  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Bryant,  his  companion  in 
many  long  country  rambles.  He  was  a  welcome  guest,  when  I  first  knew 
him,  at  some  of  the  best  and  wealthiest  houses  in  New  York.  It  was  the 
same  when  he  was  w  ith  us  here.  It  was  the  same  when  he  was  with  me  once 
in  Providence.  It  was  the  same  during  his  recent  visit  to  Boston.  It  was 
the  same  when  he  was  with  you  in  Canada,  Yet  Mr.  Cook  prates  of  his 
ignorance  of  society  and  its  conventions,  and  matches  him,  in  reference,  with 
the  very  lowest  western  savage.  I  used  to  think  Mr.  Clarence  Cook,  when  I 
slightly  knew  him  many  years  ago,  a  gentleman,  although  a  somewhat  super- 
fine one,  but  one  would  think  he  desired  to  forfeit  all  claim  to  such  consider- 
ation. He  says,  in  the  latter  part  of  his  article,  that  for  much  that  Walt  Whit- 
man has  written  it  would  not  be  easy  to  repay  him  with  grateful  words.  It  is 
a  sorry  way  to  show  gratitude,  this  reproduction  of  stale  and  shallow  fig- 
ments, most  of  them  denied  and  refuted  time  and  again ;  and  this  utterance 
of  as  brutal  a  personal  insult,  couched  in  ulter  falsehood,  as  one  man  could 
well  offer  to  another. 

Such,  up  to  this  date,  is  the  best  specimen  we  can  offer  in  America  of  a 
review  of  Leaves  of  Crass  in  its  new  edition.  Let  me  show  you,  in  this  connec- 
tion, the  kind  of  knave  a  literary  editor  can  be.  The  New  York  "  Tribune  " 
reprinted  this  article  of  Clarence  Cook's,  in  which,  it  is  just  to  Mr.  Cook  to 
say,  he  had  imbedded  several  parag.aphs  favorable  in  some  degree  to  the 
work  and  its  author;  one  praising  its  original  typographical  appearance,  the 
poet's  own  get-up ;  another  eulogizing  some  of  the  poems  by  name ;  and  nota- 
bly another,  from  which  I  give  the  following  sentences :  "  It  would  be  a 
•'  thousand  pities  were  the  author  judged  by  the  few  passages,  perhaps  not  two 
"  pages  in  all,  where  his  frankness  pushes  him  to  say  things  that  are  only 
"  coarse  because  they  are  said.  Of  indecency,  of  essential  grossness,  there  is 
"  in  the  book  really  nothing.  It  is  easy  to  believe  the  author  as  pure-rninded, 
"  as  incapable  of  doing  or  thinking  evil,  as  any  best  man  among  us  v;ho  would 
"blush  to  be  seen  in  his  shirt-sleeves  by  a  woman."  These  favorable  para- 
graphs, the  one  quoted  from  being  in  direct  opposition  to  the  obscene  review 
previously  published  in  the  "  Tribune,"  its  literary  editor  suppressed  in  repro- 
ducing the  article,  sending  it  out  thus  shorn  to  a  million  of  readers.  The 
animus  is  evident.  Such  is  the  treatment  received  by  the  grandest  book  of 
poetry  uttered  in  the  English  tongue  for  over  iwo  centuries.  And  it  is  grand ! 
Well  might  Emerson  greet  its  author  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career ! 
Nothing  equal  to  it  has  appeared  in  Celto-Saxon  literature  since  Shakespeare. 

I  mean  what  I  say,  and  I  have  considered  my  words.     It  is  the  first  poetic 


Mr.  O'Connor's  Letter— i^^.  87 

work  in  the  English  language  since  Shakespeare — let  them  deny  it  who  dare 
-^that  sounds  the  trumpet  for  u  new  advance;  that  is  not  merely  original  but 
aboriginal ;  that  pours  forth  the  aftlatus  for  another  movement ;  that  is  in  its 
theory  and  purpose  a  new  departure.  "  Solitary,  singing  in  the  West,"  the 
poet  himself  says,  "  I  strike  up  for  a  New  World." 

Consider  the  cardinal  poets  since  the  age  of  Elizabeth.  We  all  know  the 
absolute  high  level,  below  that  Elizabethan  mountain  range,  constituted  by 
Milton.  Great  and  noble  as  he  is,  he  is  not  even  the  poet  of  that  Puritanism 
whose  harsh  spell  left  him,  like  the  prince  in  the  Arabian  story,  half  breathing 
flesh  and  half  marble.  The  lofty  mood  of  Ann  Hutchinson  and  Sir  Harry 
Vane  is  not  expressed  in  his  poetry.  What  is  Pope  ?  The  philosophy  of 
Bolingbroke  felicitously  arrayed  in  facile  iambics — a  theism  fit,  as  Heine  says, 
to  be  the  religion  of  watch-makers ;  a  popular  paraphrase,  almost  a  court  dis- 
guise, of  Homer;  some  splendid  intercolumniations  of  polishfed  urban  satire; 
these  are  his  masterpieces.  What  is  Dryden  ?  A  masterly  satiric  talent  with- 
out a  conscience.  What  is  Walter  Scott  ?  In  his  verse,  only  a  superb  story- 
teller. In  Wordsworth  we  have  a  strong  but  circumscribed  intelligence. 
Once  only,  in  his  noble  ode  upon  Immortality,  he  rose  and  broadened  into 
the  serene  region  of  the  great  ideas.  Below  that,  he  is  great  only  in  a  true 
perception  of  some  common  things — a  stalk  of  celandine,  a  village  rustic,  a 
mountain  cloud.  But  his  kosmos  is  Westmoreland,  and  he  is  radically  the 
centaur  of  the  parson.  In  Burns  there  are  true  songs,  wild  gleams,  immortal 
pulses,  arrested  by  an  early  death.  In  Keats  death  also  soon  stopped  that 
copious  rich  flowering  into  English  verse  of  the  Greek  rose  and  asphodel. 
What  leader  of  the  nations  might  not  the  all-noble  Byron  have  become,  had 
he  but  lived  to  make  ripe  the  continental  promise  which  appears  in  the  broad 
European  picturings,  the  magnanimous  intellections,  the  clarion  blasts  of 
rebellion,  that  fill  "  Childe  Harold";  which  appear  still  clearer  in  "Don 
Juan,"  whose  fearless  stripping  of  the  veil  from  the  monstrous  hypocrisy  of 
society,  whose  aggrandizement  of  humanity  and  liberty,  and  whose  mines  of 
liberal  and  revolutionary  epigram,  give  it  the  rank  of  one  of  the  greatest 
poems  ever  inspired  by  the  pure  moral  sentiment !  And  Shelley — had  he  but 
grown  to  maturity,  and  gathered  force  and  become  intimate  with  rude  life, 
what  fire  upon  ihe  altar  of  what  gods  would  not  have  been  pale  beside  that 
which  sparkles  in  the  ashes  cf  his  lines !  If  Tennyson  had  continued  as  he 
began,  the  loyal  outgrowth  of  Shelley  and  Byron,  the  developed  poet  of 
"Maud,"  of  "Clara  Vere  de  Vere,"  of  "  Ulysses  "  and  "  Locksley  Hall" 
....  but  he  soon  learned  that  kind  hearts  are  less  than  coronets,  and  simple 
faith  than  Norman  blood  ; — he  shrank  back  into  aristocracy  ; — and  now  at  the 
last  analysis,  what  is  he?  An  ethereal  delight  of  poesy;  no  less;  no  more. 
I  speak  only  of  Celto-Saxon  poetry,  not  of  the  mighty  births  of  the  French 
romantic  movement.  In  my  own  country,  in  the  United  States,  that  poetry, 
aside  from  Leaves  of  Grass,  has  not  appeared  in  a  single  racy  specimen.  The 


88  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

only  possible  exception,  though  in  a  minor  key,  is  the  weird  and  lovely  lyric  verse 
of  Edgar  Poe,  perfectly  distinctive,  shrining  a  strange  mythology  of  personal 
love  and  sorrow,  and  having  its  roots  in  certain  parts  of  our  southern  life. 
But  poetry  such  as  his  only  influences,  it  does  not  emancipate  or  lead.  Not  one 
of  our  poets  has  had  broad  or  deep  aims.  Longfellow,  with  exquisite  liter- 
ary grace  and  human  benignity,  yields  only  centos  and  distillations.  Whittier 
makes  local  ballads.  Emerson  has  produced  a  handful  of  mystic  jewels,  rose 
diamonds  and  white,  a  virtuoso's  joy,  like  the  gems  of  Andrew  Marvell  or 
Vaughan.  Bryant's  fame  rests  on  "  Thanatopsis,"  a  thing  of  faithless  beauty, 
though  a  joy  forever,  but  which  internal  evidence  shows  stolen,  and  which 
might  have  been  written  in  Sherwood  Forest,  or  by  Omar  Khayyam,  so  little 
does  it  smack  of  any  particular  soil.  In  fine,  the  last  supreme  performance 
in  poetry,  before  any  of  the  poets  I  have  named,  was  Elizabethan.  The  last 
full  signal  for  a  great  march — for  an  exodus  out  of  old  conventions,  old  dog- 
mas, old  ideas,  old  theories,  was  Shakespeare. 

What  is  Shakespeare's  new  departure  ?  It  is  this :  He  is  the  first  poet  that 
ever  devoted  the  drama  to  the  physiology  of  the  human  passions — the  chief 
problem,  Bacon  says,  of  moral  philosophy;  the  knowledge  that  philosopher 
proclaimed  wanting  in  the  antique  past;  the  condition  indispensable,  he  de- 
clares, to  the  human  advancement.  T  hat  initial  body  of  natural  history  de- 
manded by  Bacon  has  been  supplied  by  Shakespeare,  in  the  interest  of  the 
human  race.  This  is  his  cardinal  distinction  as  a  poet;  this  makes  his  great- 
ness and  his  glory. 

An  old  and  valued  friend  of  mine,  whose  opinions  are  entitled  to  deep 
respect,  has  lately  said  that  the  Greek  dramatists,  especially  i^schylus,  excel 
Shakespeare  in  their  treatment  of  the  passions.  I  am  sorry  not  to  I)e  able  to 
think  this  true.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  it  would  be  far  nearer  the  truth  to 
say  that  the  Greek  dramatists,  in  their  colossal  spectacular  operas,  never  treated 
the  passions  at  all.  Much  wisdom,  much  deep  lore,  much  lofty  morality, 
much  fearful  history,  much  dread  theology,  and  questioning  of  that  theol- 
ogy, expressed  in  tremendous  passionate  situation,  these  tragedies  have  in- 
deed, but  this  is  their  whole  staple.  No  one  can  better  feel  its  majesty  than 
I,  nor  can  any  one  more  than  I  appreciate  the  sublimity  of  the  appalling 
thunder-crash  of  fatal  circumstance  which  bursts  forth  in  pealing  reverbera- 
tions .igainst  that  drama's  religious  and  legendary  depth  of  gloom,  or  the  stu- 
pendous powei  of  what  must  have  been  its  lovely  and  mournful  groupings,  i'-: 
horrible  and  magnificent  denouements,  its  strange  and  supra-mortal  living 
tableaux,  as  of  gigantic  animated  sculpture,  moving  to  breath-suspending 
music.  But  I  affirm  that  never  in  a  single  instance  did  the  Greek  poets  devote 
their  tragedies  to  the  exhibition  of  the  passions  in  their  evolution — in  their 
circumstantial  development  from  grade  to  grade  of  action — such  as  we  see  in 
"Hamlet,"  in  "Othello,"  in  "Lear."  Indeed,  the  very  conditions  of  their 
drama  precluded  such  an  exhibition.     The  theatre  of  Athens  was  built  to  ac- 


Mr.  O'Connor's  Leffer—iSS$.  89 

commodate  thirty  thousand  spectators.  To  such  a  concourse  the  tragedy  of 
"  Macbeth,"  even  with  Kemble  and  Siddons  in  the  chief  parts,  would  have 
seemed  a  play  of  dwarfs — the  tragic  expression  unseen,  the  gestures  those  of 
puppets,  the  voices  almost  lost,  the  sense  incoherent,  in  the  vastness  of  that 
stage  and  auditorium.  In  such  a  space  nothing  but  a  form  of  drama,  of  the 
nature  of  a  spectacular  opera,  conceived  in  a  gigantic  mould,  and  suggesting 
the  superhuman,  would  have  been  possible.  Instead  of  the  subtle  passional 
metaphysics  which  Shakespeare,  availing  himself  of  the  limits  of  the  modern 
stage,  can  make  dramatically  evident — better  still,  can  make  by  langupge 
alone  even  more  evident  to  the  solitary  student  of  his  pages — the  Greek 
dramatist  had  to  substitute  such  crnceptions,  ideas,  conclusions,  as  might  be 
broadly  expressed  in  imposing  stage  effects,  \\ilh  adjuncts  of  scenic  action 
and  music.  Hence  actions  rather  than  passions;  hence  a  succession  of  tab- 
leaux; a  tremendous,  significant,  sombre,  sounding  show.  Hence  upon  the 
vast  Athenian  stage  only  two  interlocutors  at  a  time  upon  the  scene,  besides 
the  choruses — /Kschylus  bayed  at  as  an  audacious  innovator  for  introducing 
three ;  the  stature  of  these  actors  raised  to  a  supra-mortal  height  by  tlie 
cothurnus ;  their  size  incieased  by  voluminous  draperies ;  their  faces  dis- 
charged of  all  but  the  one  expression,  by  the  awful  and  petrific  mask;  their 
voices  augmented  to  thunderous  or  silver-shrilling  tones  by  the  brazen  trumpet 
of  the  mouth-piece ;  and  the  verses  of  the  tragedy  intoned  and  sung  by  the 
duo  or  trio  of  histrions,  or  by  the  pealing  %oices  of  the  choirs,  ranged  in  drc- 
matic  sympathy  with  their  action.  In  fact,  if  we  can  imagine  an  appalling 
and  my^iterious  legend  played  by  titanic  statues'  of  dreadful  bronze  and 
marble  against  a  scene  of  eld,  those  statues  become  animate  and  vocal  and 
resembling  little  that  is  human,  we  can  gain  some  idea  of  the  impression  of  a 
Greek  tragedy.  Something  of  its  fearful  and  beauteous  weird ness  is  sug- 
gested by  that  eerie  line  of  Cowper,  where,  musing  in  his  garden,  he  sees  •'  a 
staiiie  walk."  Except  to  the  evocation  of  the  soul  this  form  of  suj^reme  art 
is  forever  gone;  the  superb,  the  terrible,  the  enchanting  spectacle,  the  astound- 
ing accumulation  of  catastrophes,  the  piled-up  agonies,  the  marble  lovt-li- 
ness,  the  celestial  pathos,  the  horrent  grandeurs,  the  Corjbantic  dances,  the 
Eolian  music,  once  ocular  and  auricular  to  the  Greek  audience,  and  surcharged 
with  meaning  not  of  this  world,  made  evident  through  the  senses  to  the  souls 
of  the  ai  litors — all  this  can  only  be  dimly  recovered  by  the  imagination ; 
and  of  the  august  Greek  tragedies  (such  as  remain  to  us)  we  have  nothing  but 
the  meagre  and  almost  unintelligible  librettos,  no  more  to  us  than  the  librettos 
of  great  modern  operas,  except — a  formidable  exception  indeed — that,  unlike 
the  librettos  of  "  William  Tcil,"  of  "Don  Giovanni,"  of  "II  luritani,"  or 
the  rest,  they  were  written  by  mighty  poets  and  in  the  )ier:ecost:d  language 
of  poetry.  Still,  they  are  but  librettos,  the  broken  fiery  lints  of  a  dying  (Ire- 
work  of  Promethean  fire,  the  ca/>ui  tnortuum,  the  mere  skeleton,  the  vacant 
framework  of  what  was  once  in  its  enacting  an  orbicular  and  living  drama, 


go  Appendix  to  Part  L 

vital,  glowing,  sublime  and  enormous,  the  work  of  men  like  gods.  As 
]il:)rettos — mere  outlines  which  the  rcprosentations  are  needed  to  complete — 
they  cannot  fairly  be  brought  into  comparison  with  the  text  of  Shakespeare,  a 
text  as  full  to  the  reader  as  to  the  play-goer — fuller,  indeed,  so  long  as 
Shakespeare  can  be  butchered  to  make  a  schooll)oy's  holiday  '"y  the  gang  of 
Barnums  who  run  the  modern  stage,  and  mangle  his  dramas,  and  disembowel 
his  meaning,  with  that  brutish  indifference  to  art  and  truth  and  human  pro- 
gress, which  is  fed  by  sole  regard  for  fat  receipts  at  the  ticket-office.  But, 
completed  by  the  exercise  of  the  conceptive  power,  the  dry  though  mighty- 
bones  of  these  librettos,  again  clothed  with  their  terrible  and  magnificent  life, 
the  Greek  drama  (although  /Eschylus  has  unquestionable  features  of  resem- 
blance) differs  radically  in  form  and  motive  from  the  drama  of  Shakespeare, 
and  is  intrinsically  removed  from  comparison.  I  think  Aristotle  gives  the 
full  account  of  it  when  he  says  that  its  object  was  to  move  the  soul  with  pity 
and  terror;  and  the  criticism  that  has  been  justly  given  in  censure  upon 
Aristotle  as  a  philosopher  in  refrard  to  his  treatment  of  the  human  passions, 
namely,  that  he  only  considers  the  rhetorical  or  artificial  means  whereby  they 
may  be  excited,  and  neglects  to  compile  their  natural  history,  may  be  made  in 
no  spirit  of  censure,  but  in  simple  desciptiv^ness,  in  regard  to  the  Greek 
tragedies,  inasmuch  as  their  authors  only  regarded  in  their  composition  the 
means  of  exciting  the  passions  of  those  wdio  were  to  behold  them  played,  and 
attempted  in  the  works  themselves  no  analysis  or  synthesis  of  any  of  the  pas- 
sions— not  one.  This  undertaking  was  reserved  for  Shakespeare,  and  I  affirm 
that  the  entire  novelty  of  the  conception  and  the  scientific  accuracy  and  mas- 
sive comprehensiveness,  as  well  as  the  supreme  power  and  beauty  of  its  exe- 
cution, constitute  his  special  and  distinctive  greatness  as  a  poet.  The  main 
scope  and  purpose  of  the  Shakespeare  drama  are  definitely  given  by  Lord 
Bacon  in  connection  with  his  assertion  that  the  compilation  of  the  natural 
history  of  the  human  passions  is  the  first  duty  of  philosophy,  and  that  it  is 
particularly  the  province  (jf  poetry.  In  this  connection  he  describes  the 
Shakespearean  work  perfectly.  Therein,  he  says,  "  we  may  find  painted  forth 
"with  great  life  how  passions  are  kindled  and  incited;  how  pacified  and 
"  refrained;  and  how  again  contained  from  act  and  further  degree;  how  they 
"  disclose  themselves;  how  they  work  ;  how  they  vary;  how  they  gather  and 
"fortify;  how  they  are  inwrapped  one  within  another;  and  how  they  do 
"fight  and  encounter  one  with  another;  and  other  the  like  particulars." 
"  That  is  to  say,"  remarks  Dr,  Kuno  Fischer,  quoting  this  passage  :  "  Bacon 
"  desires  nothing  less  than  a  natural  history  of  the  passions;  the  very  thing 
"  that  Shakespeare  has  produced .  Is  not,"  he  says  further,  "  the  inexliaustible 
"  theme  of  Shakespeare's  poetry  the  history  and  course  of  human  passion  ? 
"  In  the  treatment  of  this  special  theme,  is  not  Shakes|)eare  the  greatest  of 
"  all  poets,  nay,  is  he  not  uni(|ue  among  them  all  ?"  Strange,  I  must  remark, 
in  passing,  that  the  illustrious  Kantian  (and  the  observation  applies  to  Gervi- 


Mr.  G  Connor's  Letter — 1883.  9! 

nus  as  well)  should  have  gone  so  far  in  this  matter,  and  not  taken  the  step 
that  would  seem  inevitable !  But  the  fact  remains,  adnnttod  on  all  sides,  its 
significance  only  remaining  unperceived — Shakespeare  is  the  poet  of  that  par- 
ticular knowledge  of  human  nature  which  Bacon  declares  necessary  "  in  order 
»'  lliat  the  precepts  concerning  the  culture  and  cure  of  the  mind  may  be 
"rightly  concluded  upon;"  and  no  matter  what  the  myriad-figured,  many- 
millioned  play  of  the  imagination  which  attends  his  work — no  matter  how 
profuse  and  rich  the  pageant,  wherein  kings,  lords,  prelates,  gentlemen, 
clowns,  fairies,  ghosts,  trades,  employments,  wars,  elements,  cities,  landscapes, 
antique  and  modern  shows,  appear  in  uni  multiplex  projection,  and  lorm  in 
ensemb'e  the  immense  profile  of  Europe  from  the  view-point  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan age — no  matter  how  ample  the  pour  of  learning,  wisdom,  apothegm, 
axiom,  wit,  humor,  literary  felicity,  dazzling  metaphor,  noble  imagery,  classic 
allusion,  every  verlial  grace  and  grandeur,  as  from  a  cornucopia  heaped  with 
constellations — no  matter  how  deep  the  summer  of  his  verse,  the  purpose  to 
present  the  physiology  of  the  human  passions  runs  through  it  all ;  and  his 
drama  stands  the  perfect  suppliance  of  an  immense  defect  in  ancient  philoso- 
phy, and  the  foremost  division  of  that  scientific  movement  of  his  time  for  the 
relief  of  the  human  estate,  the  exten^i'Mi  of  the  empire  of  man  over  Nature, 
the  transformation  of  the  world  into  Paradise,  which  still  continues, and  which 
we  call  Baconian.  His  main  purpose  does  not,  of  course,  prevent  the  inclu- 
sion of  collateral  purposes,  only  less  vast — parables  of  a  new  philosophy,  as 
in  the  "Tempest"  and  the  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream;"  special  solutions 
of  political  problems,  as  in  "Coriolanus"  and  "Julius  Caesar;"  in  one  in- 
stance a  complete  epic  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses — the  series  of  historical 
plays  which  Bacon  calls  "history  made  visible."  But  the  main  purpose 
remains  other  than  the  special  purposes  of  these. 

To  the  historical  plays,  with  their  high-stomached  lords,  their  dragon 
rancors,  their  stormy  feudal  splendor,  I  think  Walt  Whitman  gives  undue 
weight  in  his  estimate  o'  Shakespeare's  world.  He  seems  to  derive  from  them 
his  powerful  genera'i^a  ion  of  Shakespeare  as  the  poet  of  Feudalism.  This 
would  be  true  of  ^ /alter  Scott,  a  man  sounder  and  healthier  in  his  moral 
nature  than  in  his  .ntellect,  and  who  saw  the  horrible  grandeur  of  the  feudal 
past  through  a  glamour  of  beauty  :  it  would  be  measurably  true  of  Tennyson ; 
I  doubt  if  it  is  true  of  Shakespeare.  Certainly  "  King  John,"  "  Richard  the 
Second,"  "  Richard  the  Third"  and  the  rest,  do  not  affect  the  mind  with  the 
winsome  charm  of"  Ivanhoe"  or  "  The  Talisman.''  Their  atmosphere  is  one 
of  barbarous  and  tumultuous  gloom,  and  they  do  not  make  us  love  the  times 
they  limn.  They  seem  simply  and  rudely  historical  in  their  motive,  as  aim- 
ini;  to  give  in  the  rough  a  tableau  of  warring  dynasties,  and  carry  to  nie  a 
Unking  sense  of  buiiig  in  aid  of  some  ulterior  design,  probably  well  enough 
understood  in  that  age,  which  perhaps  time  and  criticism  will  reveal.  The 
literature  of  the  Middle  Ages,  issued  under  the  jealous  eye  of  a  military  despot- 


92  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

ism,  is  extremely  insidious;  often  needs  to  be  read  b^'tween  the  lines;  and 
there  is  deep  suggestion  in  Bacon's  saying  that  "  we  ought  to  be  much 
beholden  to  Machiavel,  who  writes  what  men  do,  and  not  what  they  ought  to 
do."  In  Machiavel  himself  what  dark  nobility,  when  in  "  The  Prince" — that 
hideous  masterpiece — at  the  utter  cost  of  his  fair  fame,  at  the  price  of  giving 
his  very  name  to  become  a  byword  among  men — he  teaches  the  tyrant  so 
minutely,  and  with  such  perfect  candor,  all  the  arts  by  which  a  free  people 
may  be  subjugated,  that  the  people  become  masters  of  the  trick  too!  "The 
ostent  evanescent"  has  its  application  to  much  of  the  great  literature  of  those 
times — at  least  to  the  penetrating  eye  that  finds  the  ostent  of  that  literature 
deceitful ;  and  it  is  impussihle  to  believe  that  the  greatest  of  the  Elizabethan 
men  could  have  sought  to  indoctrinate  the  ages  with  the  love  of  feudalism 
which  his  own  drama  in  its  entirety,  if  the  view  taken  of  it  herein  be  true, 
certainly  and  subtly  saps  and  mines.  The  only  supreme  tyrant  is  Ignorance. 
To  destroy  this,  as  the  Shakespeare  drama  assists  to  destroy  it — to  destroy  this 
by  teaching  man  the  science  of  his  own  nature — is  to  deliberately  forelay  for 
the  destruction  of  the  whole  Olympus  of  lesser  tyrants,  feudal  and  other,  of 
which  Ignorance  is  the  Jove.  If  I  sought  to  express  the  Shakespeare  drama 
in  the  image  of  a  person,  I  would  not  choose  the  eidolon  of  any  feudal  em- 
peror. My  choice  would  be  a  man  like  Francis  Bacon — so  majestic  in  his 
presence,  Osborne,  his  contemporary,  says  of  him,  that  he  awed  all  men  upon 
occasion  into  reverence,  and  yet,  continues  Osborne,  so  much  one  of  the  com- 
monalty tiiat  he  could  jmss  from  talk  with  a  lod  about  his  hawks  and  hounds 
to  out-cant  a  London  chirurgeon  in  his  slang,  so  that  all  sorts  of  men  thought 
him  one  of  themselves;  Frnncis  Bacon,  wise  with  all  the  lore  of  all  the  ages, 
the  companion  and  counsellor  of  {)rinces,  the  familiar  of  gypsies  and  tinkers 
and  sailors  as  well ;  deep-eyed  with  long  insight  into  the  minds  of  men  of 
every  degree;  master  of  multiform  experiences;  travelled,  elegant,  courtly, 
august,  intrepid,  loyal,  gentle,  compassionate,  sorrowful,  beautiful;  clothed 
from  fondness  for  sumptuous  apparel  in  purple  three-piled  velvet,  rich 
laces  and  the  hat  with  plumes,  yet  loving — another  anecdote  tells  of  him — to 
ride  with  bared  head,  in  the  warm  and  perfumed  rains  of  spring,  that  he 
might  feel  upon  him,  he  said,  the  universal  spirit  of  the  world!  Such  would 
be  the  image  of  the  man  I  would  choose  to  express  the  Shakespeare  drama — 
an  image,  by  the  way,  not  much  like  the  infamous  caricature  made  of  him 
by  that  brilliant  thimble-rigging  Scotch  scoundrel,  Macaulay,  with  the  noble 
and  honorable  object  of  spiting  Basil  Montagu. 

Still,  let  it  be  distinctly  admitted,  although  the  imputation  of  feudalism  may 
be  rejected,  the  point  of  view  in  the  Shakespeare  drama  is  always  that  of  the 
court.  The  court  perfume  streams,  like  a  necessity  of  authorship,  less  from 
choice  than  circumstance,  through  all  this  mighty  and  beneficent  creation. 
For  the  jilebeian  point  of  view,  maintained  unconsciously  throughout,  despite 
the  learning,  despite  the  patrician  themes  or  characters  chosen,  despite  even 


Mr.  O'Connor's  Letter— 188^.  9j 

the  voluptuous  dainty  elegance  and  charm  of  some  of  the  lyrics  and  epigrams, 
contrast  the  works  of  Ben  Jonson.  The  son  of  the  bricklayer  appears  through- 
out, and  it  is  the  bricklayer's  son  of  the  mournful  age  of  Elizabeth  and  James, 
before  the  people  was  born.  Strange  grace  of  chance  if,  in  that  age,  the 
patrician  spirit,  which  may  easily  be  the  natural  birthright  of  any  farmer  or 
mechanic  now — at  least  in  this  country — should  have  animated  one  as  lowly 
born  as  Siiakespeare,  so  as  to  tincture  all  his  works  with  an  odor,  clinging  as 
the  musk  of  Nepaul !  But  the  fact  cannot  be  unperceived — the  outlook  of 
the  Shakespeare  drama  is  from  the  court ;  the  sympathy,  though  universal,  is 
from  the  social  above,  never  from  the  below ;  the  implied  life  of  the  author  is 
that  of  the  gently  born  and  bred,  not  of  the  tradesman  or  the  laborer.  In 
every  page  we  feel  the  superior  social  grade.  It  is  the  best  spirit  of  the  best 
Elizabethan  noiile.  One  would  say  the  author  was  a  lord.  Truly — but  a  lord 
as  Buddha  was  a  prince. 

The  times  have  gone  by  when  the  court  was  the  generalization  of  the 
nation,  and  the  typical  man,  either  as  person  or  poet,  was  necessarily  of  the 
aristocracy.  The  change  has  come  to  pass  which  the  great  Elizabethan  men 
darkly  toiled  to  accomplish,  in  an  age  when  the  new  was  stirring  in  the  old — 
the  dawn  of  which  appeared  for  a  little  while  a  few  years  after  they  had  passed 
away,  in  the  Commonweal  of  Vane  and  Hampden,  which  Cromwell  quenched 
in  cloud.  In  every  country  in  Christendom  the  people  has  been  born,  and  in 
this  has  come  to  sovereignty.  That  democratic  sovereignty,  a  political  fact 
here  to-day,  will  be  a  social  fact  here  to-morrow,  and  of  that  fact  in  its  present 
and  its  future,  and  of  that  New  World  which  is  the  arena  of  its  evolution, 
Walt  Whitman  is  the  poet,  and  Leaves  of  Grass  is  the  poem.  The  very  resist- 
ance to  the  work,  as  when  a  foreign  journal  denounced  "its  rank  republican 
insolence,"  proves  its  democratic  scope  and  character;  the  very  criticism  of 
its  foes,  who  "  cannot  dispraise  but  in  a  sort  of  praise,"  supports  its  claim. 
Next  in  the  order  of  intellectual  succession  to  Shakespeare,  its  author  appears 
in  his  typical  mechanic's  garb,  as  the  portrait  in  the  book  shows  him,  a  work- 
man sprung  from  a  race  of  workmen,  a  representative  poet  of  the  people ; 
such  here  specifically,  and  collaterally  throughout  the  world.  "  The  people — 
the  poor,"  says  a  recent  reviewer,  sympathetically  defining.  Alas!  no:  the 
poor  are  not  the  people  !  "  The  poor,"  says  Victor  Hugo,  "  are  the  mourn- 
ful commencement  of  the  people  !  "  The  people  are  the  inhabitants  of  the 
country  when  jiolitical  organization  has  secured  for  them  the  power  of  the 
sceptre,  and  social  organization  has  endowed  them  with  the  opulence  of  tiie 
crown.  From  power  and  wealth  in  equitable  distribution  results  the  great 
spiritual  patrician  race  worthy  to  be  called  the  people.  That  race  in  its 
mighty  infancy  is  here — a  baby  Hercules,  who  in  its  cradle  has  strangled 
monsters,  and  whose  manhood  and  the  labors  of  whose  manhood  are  to  come. 

I  have  gazed  for  years  into  this  grand  orb  of  poetry ;  I  have  mused  upon 


94  Appendix  to  Part  I, 

its  wild  elegance  and  splendor,  its  tranquil  and  candid  reproduction  of  things 
gross  and  dc licate  as  they  are  in  the  sphere  of  the  great  ]'an,  its  august  mascu- 
line and  feminine  ideals,  its  teeming  shows  of  historic  and  current  life,  its 
magic  changing  palingenesis  of  the  populous  cities,  the  diversified  landscapes, 
the  picturesque  solitudes,  the  genr^  male  and  female  figures,  the  infinite  fauna 
and  flora,  the  skies,  mountains,  streams,  prairies  of  our  Continental  West,  all 
recreated  here  in  their  several  idiosyncrasies,  under  every  diversity  of  times  and 
seasons,  vital  and  magnetic,  a  scenic  whole  exhaling  delicious  natural  odors, 
swept  by  free  winds,  alive  and  moving  in  harmony  to  the  marching  measures, 
the  glorious  rolling  music  of  a  rhythmus,  caught,  one  might  divine,  from  the 
movements,  copious  and  unequal,  of  the  surf  sweeping  in  forever  upon  the 
beaches  where  the  poet  wandered  as  a  child.  I  have  brooded  long  upon  it 
all,  and  I  have  compared  U  with  the  famous  poems  of  the  supreme  men  of  all 
ages,  and  found  it  in  no  wise  inferior  to  the  best,  as  many  besides  me  have 
felt,  and  the  near  future  will  declare;  but  I  should  shrink,  faint-hearted  in  my 
conscious  inferiority,  from  any  effort  at  its  adequate  interpretation.  It  spreads 
before  us  all,  a  supeib  cosmorama  of  the  West,  populous,  colossal  and  golden, 
under  the  ascending  race  of  the  rejoicing  sun.  Who  am  I  that  I  should  un- 
fold the  mystic  reminiscences  of  this  Universal  Poem,  reveal  its  oracular  sug- 
gestions, comment  upon  its  sublime  ann  inciations,  interpret  its  prophetic 
voices,  declare  anything  of  what  it  is  to  <  very  reader  with  an  awakened  soul  ? 
Sometimes  I  think  it  might  be  cfuisidered  the  poem  of  embodiment.  It 
indicates  the  august  kosniic  fact  of  numberless  material  entities  held  in 
cohesion  by  spirit,  which  in  time  loosens  and  departs.  In  a  more  restricted 
consideration,  it  appears  as  the  poem  of  the  embodied  human  soul.  Other 
writers  have  celebrated  the  body,  others  the  spirit,  until  we  feel  them  almost 
in  disconnection.  Take,  as  opposing  poles,  Rabelais  and  Shelley.  In  Rabelais 
there  is  a  creation,  gross,  enormous,  carnal,  full-blown,  laughing,  obscene, 
alimentative,  bibulous,  excrementitious,  loathsome  and  magnificent.  It  is  the 
fearful  apotheosis  of  the  flesh,  the  monstrous  apocalypse  of  the  abdomen  be- 
come lord  paramount — man  submerged  in  his  lusts  and  appetites.  The  con- 
ception could  only  have  proceeded  from  a  mighty  intellect  and  a  great  moral 
nature.  In  Shelley  there  is  evolved  an  image,  phantasmal,  super-celestial, 
inessential,  divinely  wan  and  lovely,  the  ghost  become  consubstantial  with  a 
music  unearthly  and  wandering,  a  shape  of  woven  perfume,  an  odic  force 
grown  palely  visible,  a  perceived  pneuma,  an  apprehended  essence,  an  ethereal 
apparition,  the  presence  of  the  violet-breathing  night-wind  of  the  spring.  The 
eidolon  of  his  poetry  is  as  incredible  in  its  beauty  as  in  its  utter  removal  from 
carnality.  It  is  like  a  dream  of  the  soul  remembered  in  a  dream.  Its  extreme 
sublimation  will  forever  make  it  incomprehensible  to  any  but  the  most  im- 
aginative minds — to  aught  but  the  clairvoyant  sense  that  comes  into  rapport 
with  thought  clinging  to  the  dim  boundaries  of  the  world :  and  Shelley  can 
never  have  the  fame  his  genius  deserves,  so  far  is  his  work  removed  from  the 


Mr,  G Connor's  LeUer—iSSs.  95 

reality  and  passion  of  our  lives.  His  merits  as  a  poet  are  inexpressible.  Not 
least  among  them  is  the  altogether  new  ideal  of  woman,  radiant,  heroic,  noble, 
and  exalte,  which  appears  in  his  pages.  His  poetry  suggests  in  its  furthest 
rapt  remove  from  realization,  almost  from  apprehension,  the  unbodied  soul. 
The  athletic  spirituality  of  Leaves  of  Grass  has  no  kinship  to  the  spirit  of  the 
"  Gargantua,"  and  it  is  far  nearer  to  the  divine  afflatus  of  the  "  Epipsychidion." 
But  the  creation  of  the  book  is  its  author's  own — as  original  as  sui geticris — 
and  ihat  creation  is,  within  the  limits  of  the  present  reference,  the  strongest, 
amplest,  most  definite  projection  of  the  soul  incarnate — of  the  representative 
human  being — which  has  ever  been  thrown  into  literature.  In  it  the  spirit 
and  the  flesh  appear  as  a  unit,  in  perfect  equilibrium,  in  the  mutual  interpene- 
tration  and  consubstantiality  appropriate  to  the  ideal  Adam.  Were  humanity 
to  disappear  from  the  globe,  and  this  poem  alone  to  remain,  the  being  of  an- 
other species  than  ours,  finding  it  among  the  ruins,  could  recover  from  its 
pages  full  knowledge  of  what  manner  of  man  had  inhabited  here,  as  surely  as 
Lamarck  or  Owen  from  the  fossil  vestiges  can  reconstruct  the  vanished  masto- 
don. The  great  affirmation  which  pervades  the  whole  conception  is  the 
veracity  of  consciousness.  Let  us  bow  down  before  this  supreme  word  !  Be- 
hind it  there  is  nothing.  It  indicates  the  true  finality,  and  in  it  is  the  entire 
proof  of  life.  To  be  aware  is  all.  To  be  aware  is  to  be.  Memory  —the 
personal  past — is  consciousness  retained  :  anticipation — the  personal  future — 
is  consciousness  projected.  It  is  this  divine  fact  that  the  poet,  as  he  himself 
says,  sings  in  so  many  ecstatic  songs,  and  out  of  it  has  emerged  his  transcend- 
ent conception  of  the  incarnate  soul — the  human  creature,  male  or  female, 
the  female  equal  to  the  male — the  being,  dual  and  unitary  at  once,  like  the 
globe  of  two  hemispheres — the  insulated  identity,  type  of  all  human  identities, 
the  woman,  the  man.  A  creature  of  substantial  body,  parts  and  passions ; 
divine  in  every  organ  and  attribute,  not  one  of  which  is  to  be  omitted  or  con- 
temned in  celebration,  since  each  and  all  are  intermutual  in  their  adaptation, 
as  they  must  be  in  an  organic  whole ;  infinite  and  omnigenous  in  character, 
without  origin  and  without  end,  and  grown  and  growing  through  sympathy 
by  tiie  accrument  of  myriad  experiences;  shaped,  propelled,  developed  alike 
by  good  and  evil,  as  under  the  mechanical  law  of  the  composition  of  rival 
forces,  effects  rre  resultant;  prepared  for  in  the  earthly  advent  by  all  tiie 
cyclic  preparations  of  the  globe,  and  continued  in  endless  course  by  all 
the  operations  of  things;  eternal  in  personal  identity,  the  phases  at  once 
merged  and  retained,  as  infancy  is  both  lost  and  kept  in  childhood,  childliood 
in  youth,  youth  in  maturity,  and  so  on  forever  ;  fathomless,  abysmal,  immense 
and  interminable  as  Nature,  to  which  he  or  she  is  related  as  a  constant  vital 
influence  forever  influenced;  representative,  at  any  given  stage  of  his  or  her 
evolution,  of  the  innumerable  lower  beings,  progressing  to  that  level,  to  sink  in 
turn  that  level,  and  continue  on ;  representative,  m  the  best  estate,  of  the  intrinsic 
spiritual  greatness  and  majesty  of  each  and  all  of  the  rest  through  whateve^the 


gS  Appmdix  to  Part  I, 

pitiable,  grotesque  or  vile  disguises  of  api)earance  incident  to  the  processes  of 
transforniation ;  heir  to  an  omuific  personal  destiny  which  is  alike  the  destiny 
of  each  and  all ;  governed  through  all  the  nature  by  the  egoistic  pride,  and  by 
love  and  the  necessity  for  love,  as  by  two  paramount  vital  springs ;  conscious 
at  the  summit  of  the  highest  knowledge  of  the  eternal  mystery  in  which  all 
lieings  must  remain  to  each,  and  of  tue  eternal  mystery  one  must  be  to  one's- 
self ;  and,  from  that  lofty  summit,  joyous,  haughty,  transfigured  in  the  sense 
of  the  democratic  constitution  of  the  Universe,  in  which  all  between  the  worm 
and  the  god  are  equal,  being  all  organically  necessary  to  the  whole,  and  of 
which  perpetual  ascension,  perpetual  transfer  and  promotion,  is  the  law.  Such, 
in  my  apprehension,  and  in  a  crude,  didactic  account  of  it,  is  this  majestic  con- 
ception, which,  in  the  poet's  work,  is  expressed  in  a  thousand  magnetic  and 
ehjquent  sentences,  in  a  thousand  vivid  and  wondrous  verbal  pictures,  and 
with  a  power  of  alto-relievo  statement  and  illustration  which  the  fancy-dealers 
in  letters  can  never  deal  in.  It  is  far  enough  removed  from  the  conception 
wherewith  Mr.  Harlan's  Messiah,  Wesley,  startled  England,  when  he  defined 
man  as  "  half  brute  and  half  devil."  The  body  is  the  temple  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  says  the  rapt  apostle ;  and  of  this  text  Walt  Whitman's  book  is,  within 
the  limitations  of  this  view  of  it,  the  ample,  the  electric,  the  robust  and  un- 
rivalled commentary.  As  such  it  offers  a  new  foundation  for  our  philosophy, 
our  politics,  our  life,  above  all  for  our  religion — a  religion  to  be  greater  than 
the  world  has  ever  seen,  and  worthy  of  these  shores. 

To  others  better  equipped  for  the  grateful  labor,  I  will  leave  it  to  descant 
upon  what  is  correlated  to  the  conception  I  have  so  imperfectly  touched — the 
matchless  presentation  of  the  representative  man  and  woman  of  this  country. 
In  Shakespeare  there  are  no  ideals  in  the  sense  of  exemplars  of  human  ex- 
cellence, or  if  so  to  any  degree,  it  is  in  artistic  and  moral  subordination  to 
what  seems  his  main  aim,  namely,  to  create  types  or  models  showing  the 
operation  of  the  perturbations  or  tempests  of  the  mind.  In  Leaves  of  Grass 
the  ideals  are  distinct,  and  nothing  could  be  more  resplendent  or  commanding. 
They  will  haunt  the  imagination  of  this  country,  they  will  haunt  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  world,  until  they  are  realised  in  •'  the  life  that  shall  be  copious, 
vehement,  spiritual,  bold,"  which  the  poet  prophesies — in  "the  great  indi- 
viduals, fluid  as  Nature,  chaste,  affectionate,  compassionate,  fully  armed" — in 
"  the  breeds  of  the  most  perfect  mothers" — "  the  myriads  of  youths,  beautiful, 
gigantic,  sweet-blooded" — "  the  race  of  splendid  and  savage  old  men" — "  the 
hundred  millions  of  superb  persons,"  which  appear  in  his  sublime  annuncia- 
tion as  belonging  to  the  future  of  America.  Women  have  especial  cause  to 
be  grateful  to  Walt  Whitman.  The  noblest  ideal  of  woman  ever  contributed 
appears  in  his  pages.  His  supreme  presentation  of  her  in  the  natural  privi- 
lege of  her  motherhood — in  her  all-enclosing,  all-determining  and  divine 
maternity,  is  of  more  than  any  former  majesty,  and  is  unparalleled  in  philo- 
sophic depth  and  truth,  as  it  is  in  august  and  tender  beauty.     I  would  fain 


Mr.  O'Connor's  Letter — 1883.  97 

dwell  upon  this  feature  of  his  book,  as  T  would  upon  the  crowded  and  splendid 
cartoon  of  the  United  States,  in  all  their  diversified  truth  of  essence  and  ap- 
pearance, in  all  their  multiplicity  and  variety  of  life,  which  his  pages  offer 
broadly  to  contemplation.  There  are  few  national  works  which  have  so  fully 
imaged  the  distinctive  form  of  a  land  and  its  people.  Homer  has  given  to 
the  ages  a  wondrous  picture  of  the  old  Pelasgic  civilization ;  Rome,  when  the 
city  was  the  world,  glows  in  the  tragic  light  of  dying  liberty  and  virtue  in  the 
mighty  pages  of  Juvenal;  amidst  the  great  fulgurations  of  the  laugliter  i^f 
Rabelais,  we  see  the  gross  swarming  life  of  old  Paris  and  '1  ouraino ;  and 
France,  as  in  the  magic  mirror  of  Agrippa,  in  all  the  horror  and  grandeur  of 
the  feudal  past,  the  revolutionary  combat  and  the  anguish  of  the  present,  the 
superb  promise  of  the  future,  and  in  the  supreme  glory  of  compassion  which 
streams  from  the  poet's  own  mighty  heart,  lives  in  the  poetry,  the  drama,  the 
romance  of  the  illustrious  Victor  Hugo;  Ijut  in  what  poem  have  all  the  things 
which  make  up  the  show  of  a  people's  life  appeared  with  such  compreiiensive 
and  vivid  reality,  such  national  dif  Jnctiveness  and  such  sti-ength  of  charm,  as 
in  Leaves  of  Grass  ?  Above  all,  the  wonder  of  it  is,  to  me,  the  marvel  that  wliat 
was  thought  commonplace  and  prosaic  is  restored  in  the  book  to  the  superbest 
poetry  by  the  revelation  of  its  intrinsic  significance—  liy  the  establishment  of 
its  mystical  relation.  The  common  objects  as  well  as  the  most  beautiful  and 
striking — the  ordinary  events  and  incidents  as  well  as  those  of  the  greater 
series — the  rude,  plain,  simple,  unlettered  people,  as  well  as  the  elevated  and 
heroic — all  appear  in  the  poem  in  an  equality  of  consideration,  unrobbed  of 
the  deep  interior  value  which  truly  belongs  to  every  figure,  to  every  object  and 
emblem  in  the  divine  procession  of  life.  Such  mighty  and  democratic  hand- 
ling of  a  theme,  without  rejection  or  evasion,  reveals  the  great  master,  just  as 
the  true  sculptor  is  seen,  when,  after  you  have  gazed  at  a  number  of  the  stone 
dolls  which  adorn  our  Capitol,  in  which  the  fact  of  the  genrd  costume  is  com- 
monly sought  to  be  dodged  by  the  artifice  of  a  marmoreal  cloak,  you  turn  to 
David's  noble  bronze  of  Jefferson,  in  which  the  grace,  the  strength,  the  fire, 
the  life  of  the  figure  are  fused  into  evci^  \J^:3  ({  the  frankly  rendered  old 
colonial  garb.  The  great  master  is  eq  ally  revealed  in  the  poems  of  the  war 
for  the  Union,  around  which  the  orbit  )f  the  book  is  now  arranged.  Of  these 
poems  it  may  be  said  that  they  alone  cf  all  the  song  born  from  that  struggle 
are  in  the  true  key.  Apart  from  their  clear,  frerh  and  vital  picturing^— the  sad 
and  stormy  truth  and  color  of  their  scenery — they  are  surcharged  with  the 
peculiar  tragic  pathos  which  civil  war  must  always  inspire  in  hearts  deeply 
noble,  and  will  be  accepted  in  all  our  latitudes,  North  and  South  alike,  since 
they  can  be  read  without  unmanly  exultation  by  the  victor,  and  without 
humiliation  by  the  vanquished.     The  word  "  Reconciliation"  s^-'^ns  them  all: 

Word  over  all,  beautiful  as  the  sky  ; 

Beautiful  that  war  and  all  its  deeds  of  carnage  must  in  time  be  utterly  lost, 
That  the  hands  of  the  sisters  Death  and  Night  incessantly  softly  wash  agftin,  and  ever  again, 
this  soiled  world ; 

9 


98  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

For  my  enemy  is  dead,  a  man  divine  as  myself  is  dead, 

1  loolc  where  lie  lies  white-faced  and  still  in  the  coffin — I  draw  near, 

Bend  down  and  touch  lightly  with  my  lips  the  white  face  in  the  coffin. 

A  few  years  ago  there  was  nn  old  man  in  this  city,  an  eminent  officer  of  the 
government,  former'y  a  judge,  with  whom  I  sometimes  conversed,  and  the 
idol  of  whose  thought  and  life  was  Jefferson.  He  set  great  value  upon 
Leaves  of  Grass,  but  the  works  and  life  of  the  author  of  the  Declaration 
of  Independence  made  his  central  theme,  of  which  he  never  wearied,  nor, 
indeed,  made  others  weary,  he  discoursed  upon  it  so  eloquently  well.  He 
has  passed  from  among  us;  but  I  can  still  see  in  memory,  his  old,  wrinkled, 
earnest,  smiling  face,  and  dark,  sunken  eyes  tinged  around  with  black,  and 
hear  his  low,  °ager  voice,  as  with  the  ardor  of  a  boy  he  unrolled  his  disserta- 
tion upon  some  sentence  of  the  sage  of  Monticello,  or,  kindling  into  some 
magian  gloss  upon  his  text,  foretold  in  a  sort  of  measured  ecstasy  the  complete 
ultimate  triumph  of  the  democratic  principle,  and  the  transfiguration  of  govern- 
ment and  society  in  the  operation  of  the  ideas  of  his  master.  But  always  as 
the  climax  of  his  rapt  argument,  or  at  the  close  of  any  stage  thereof,  before  it 
mounted  to  a  higher  proposition,  he  would  say,  bending  his  old  head  forward, 
his  voice  trembling  with  intensity,  his  face  glowing  into  a  deeper  wizard  smile, 
his  dark  eyes  shining  in  their  swarthy  circles — "  and  here,"  he  would  exclaim, 
"here  is  where  our  glorious  Walt  comes  in  and  confirms  Jefferson!"  No  de- 
scription could  convey  a  sense  of  the  tone  of  utter  satisfaction  and  triumph  ift 
which  he  announced  his  prophet  confirmed  by  his  poet,  nor  of  the  tremulous 
fervor,  the  supreme  unction  with  which  the  words  *'  our  glorious  Walt"  were 
uttered.  I  take  the  remembrance  of  those  words,  as  I  would  a  wild  flower 
from  the  kind  old  scholar's  grave,  and  lay  it  on  our  poet's  book  as  my  latest 
offering,  worth  more  than  the  little  tribute  I  have  ever  brought,  or  all  that  I 
could  ever  bring.  "  Our  glorious  Willy"  was  the  phrase  the  author  of  the 
"Faery  Queen"  threw,  like  a  star,  upon  the  name  of  Shakespeare  in  the  days 
when  the  term  "  a  willy"  was  simply  a  euphuism  for  "  a  poet,"  and  no  more. 
"Our  glorious  Walt,"  the  utterance  of  lips  that  fondly  loved  the  name  of 
Jefferson,  and  yielded  the  words  in  homage  to  the  oard  who  has  carried  into 
literature  earth's  greatest  dream,  is  at  least  ai  honor  equal  to  that  Spenser  gave, 
and  goes  to  an  object  no  less  worthy  of  such  h  inor.  For  to  have  conceived  and 
written  Leaves  of  Grass — to  have  been  of  the  old  heroic  strain  of  which  such 
books  alone  are  born — to  have  surcharged  the  pages  w  ith  their  world  of  noble 
and  passionate  life — to  have  done  all  this,  to  have  dared  all  this,  to  have  suf- 
fered for  all  this — is  to  be  the  true  brother  of  Shakespeare. 

Pardon  my  imperfect  contribution  to  your  volume.  You  know  how  hastily 
I  have  written,  using  the  little  time  left  by  the  pressing  tasks  of  the  Life-Saving 
Service.     And  with  cordial  wishes  for  the  success  of  your  book, 

Pelieve  me,  Dear  Sir, 

Faithfully  yours, 

William  Douglas  O'Connor. 


THE  GOOD  GRAY  POET. 

A  VINDICATION. 

Washington,  D.  C,  Sept.  2,  1865. 

Nine  weeks  have  elapsed  since  the  commission  of  an  outrage,  to  which  I 
have  not  till  now  been  able  to  give  my  attention,  but  which,  in  the  interest  of 
the  sacred  cause  of  free  letters,  and  in  that  alone,  I  never  meant  should  pass 
without  its  proper  and  enduring  brand. 

For  years  past,  thousands  of  people  in  New  York,  in  Brooklyn,  in  Boston, 
in  New  Orleans,  and  latterly  in  Washington,  have  seen,  even  as  I  saw  two 
hours  ago,  tallying,  one  might  say,  the  street!?  of  our  American  cities,  and  fit 
to  have  for  his  background  and  accessories  their  streaming  populations  and 
ample  and  rich  fagades,  a  man  of  striking  masculine  beauty — a  poet — powerful 
and  venerable  in  appearance;  large,  calm,  superbly  formed;  oftenest  clad  in 
the  careless,  rough,  and  always  picturesque  costume  of  the  common  people ;  re- 
sembling, and  generally  taken  by  strangers  for  some  great  mechanic  or  steve- 
dore, or  seaman,  or  grand  laborer  of  one  kind  or  another;  and  passing  slowly 
in  this  guise,  with  nonchalant  and  haughty  step  along  the  pavement,  with  the 
sunlight  and  shadows  falling  around  him.  The  dark  sombrero  he  usually 
wears  was,  when  I  saw  him  just  now,  the  day  being  warm,  held  for  the 
moment  in  his  hand ;  rich  light  an  artist  would  have  chosen,  lay  upon  his 
uncovered  head,  majestic,  large,  Homeric,  and  set  upon  his  strong  shoulders 
with  the  grandeur  of  ancient  sculpture.  I  marked  the  countenance,  serene, 
proud,  cheerful,  florid,  grave;  the  brow  seamed  with  noble  wrinkles;  the 
features,  massive  and  handsome,  with  firm  blue  eyes ;  the  eyebrows  and  eye- 
lids especially  showing  that  fulness  of  arch  seldom  seen  save  in  the  antique 
busts ;  the  flowing  hair  and  fleecy  beard,  both  very  gray,  and  tempering  with 
a  look  of  age  the  youthful  aspect  of  one  who  is  but  forty-five ;  the  simplicity 
and  purity  of  his  dress,  cheap  and  plain,  but  spotless,  from'  snowy  falling 
collar  to  burnished  boot,  and  exhaling  faint  fragrance ;  the  whole  form  sur- 
rounded with  manliness  as  with  a  nimbus,  and  breathing,  in  its  perfect  health 
and  vigor,  the  august  charm  of  the  strong. 

We  who  have  looked  upon  this  figure,  or  listened  to  that  clear,  cheerful, 
vibrating  voice,  might  thrill  to  think,  could  we  but  transcend  our  age,  that  we 
had  been  thus  near  to  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  sons  of  men.  But  Dante 
stirs  no  deep  pulse,  unless  it  be  of  hate,  as  he  walks  the  streets  of  Florence ; 
that  shabby,  one-armed  soldier,  just  out  of  jail  and  hardly  noticed,  though  he 

(99) 


100  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

has  amused  Europe,  is  Michael  Cervantes;  that  son  of  a  vinedresser,  whom 
Athens  laughs  at  as  an  eccentric  genius,  before  it  is  thought  worth  while  lo 
roar  him  into  exile,  is  the  century-shaking  /Eschylus ;  that  phantom  whom 
the  wits  of  the  seventeenth  century  think  not  worth  extraordinary  notice,  and 
the  wits  of  the  eighteenth  century,  spluttering  with  laughter,  call  a  barbarian, 
is  Shakespeare;  tiiat  earth-soiled,  vice-stained  ploughman,  with  the  noble 
heart  and  sweet  bright  eyes,  abominated  by  the  good  and  patronized  by  the 
gentry,  subject  now  of  anniversary  banquets  by  gentlemen  who,  could  they 
wander  backward  from  those  annual  hiccups  into  time,  would  never  help  his 
life  or  keep  his  company — is  Robert  Burns ;  and  this  man,  whose  grave,  per- 
haps, the  next  century  will  cover  with  passionate  and  splendid  honors,  goes 
regarded  with  careless  curiosity  or  phlegmatic  composure  by  his  own  age. 
Yet,  perhaps,  in  a  few  hearts  he  has  waked  that  deep  thrill  due  to  the  passage 
of  the  sublime.  I  heard  lately,  with  sad  pleasure,*  of  the  letter  introducing  a 
friend,  filled  with  noble  courtesy,  and  dictated  by  the  reverence  for  genius, 
which  a  distinguished  English  nobleman,  a  stranger,  sent  to  this  American 
bard.  Nothing  deepens  my  respect  for  the  beautiful  intellect  of  the  scholar 
Alcott,  like  the  bold  sentence  "  Greater  than  Plato,"  which  he  once  uttered 
upon  him.  I  hold  it  the  surest  proof  of  Thoreau's  insight,  that  after  a  con- 
versation, seeing  how  he  incarnated  the  immense  and  new  spirit *of  the  age, 
and  was  the  compend  of  America,  he  came  away  to  speak  the  electric  sentence, 
"  He  is  Democracy !"  I  treasure  to  my  latest  hour,  with  swelling  heart  and 
springing  tears,  the  remembrance  that  Abraham  Lincoln,  seeing  him  for  the 
first  time  from  the  window  of  the  east  room  of  the  White  House  as  he  passed 
slowly  by,  and  gazing  at  him  long  with  that  deep  eye  which  read  men,  said, 
in  the  quaint,  sweet  tone,  which  those  who  have  spoken  with  him  will  rememlier, 
and  with  a  significant  emphasis  which  the  type  can  hardly  convey,  "  Well,  he 
looks  like  a  Man!"  Sublime  tributes,  great  words;  but  none  too  high  for 
their  object,  the  author  of  Leaves  of  Grast,  Walt  Whitman,  of  Brooklyn, 

On  the  30th  of  June  last,  this  true  American  man  and  author  was  dismissed, 
under  circumstances  of  peculiar  wrong,  from  a  clerkship  he  had  held  for  six 
months  in  the  Department  of  the  Interior,  His  dismissal  was  the  act  of  the 
Hon,  James  Harlan,  the  Secretary  of  the  Department,  formerly  a  Methodist 
clergyman,  and  president  of  a  Western  college. 

Upon  the  interrogation  of  an  eminent  officer  of  the  Government,  at  whose 
instance  the  appointment  had,  under  a  former  Secretary,  been  made,  Mr.  Har- 
lan averred  that  Walt  Whitman  had  been  iu  no  way  remiss  in  the  discharge 
of  his  duties,  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  so  far  as  he  could  learn,  his  conduct  had 
been  most  exemplary.     Indeed,  during  the  few  months  of  his  tenure  of  office, 

*  Pleasure  a  mean  lie  saddeneH.  Stopping  en  route  at  Cambridge,  the  bearer  of  this  letter 
was  informed  by  one  of  its  most  distinguished  resident  authors,  that  Walt  Whitman  was 
"  nothing  but  a  low  New  York  rowdy,"  "a  common  street  blackguard,"  and  he  accordingly 
did  not  venture  to  present  the  letter. 


The  Good  Gray  Poet.  (1865-6).  10 1 

he  had  been  promoted.  The  sole  and  only  cause  of  his  dismissal,  Mr.  Har- 
lan said,  was  that  he  had  written  the  book  of  poetry  entitled  Leaves  of  Grass. 
This  book  Mr.  Harlan  characterized  as  "  full  of  indecent  passages."  The 
author,  he  said,  was  "a  very  bad  man,"  a  "  free  lover."  Argument  being 
had  upon  these  propositions,  Mr.  Harlan  was,  as  regards  the  book,  utterly  un- 
able to  maintain  his  assertions,  and,  as  regards  the  author,  was  forced  to  own 
that  his  opinion  of  him  had  been  changed.  Nevertheless,  after  this  substan- 
tial admission  of  his  injustice,  he  absolutely  refused  to  revoke  his  action.  Of 
course,  under  no  circumstances  would  Walt  Whitman,  the  proudest  man  that 
lives,  have  consented  to  again  enter  into  office  under  Mr.  Harlan  ;  but  the  de- 
mand for  his  reinstatement  was  as  honorable  to  the  gentle  man  vvuo  made  it  as 
the  refusal  to  accede  to  it  was  discreditable  to  the  Secretary, 

The  closing  feature  of  this  transaction,  and  one  which  was  a  direct  conse- 
quence of  Mr.  Harlan's  course,  was  its  remission  to  the  scurrilous,  and  in 
some  instances  libellous,  comment  of  a  portion  of  the  press.  To  sum  up,  an 
author,  solely  and  only  for  the  publication,  ten  years  ago,  of  an  honest  book, 
which  no  intelligent  and  candid  person  can  regard  as  hurtful  to  morality,  was 
expelled  from  office  by  the  Secretary,  and  held  up  to  public  contumely  by  the 
newspapers.  It  only  remains  to  be  added  here,  that  the  Hon.  James  Harlan 
is  the  gentleman  who,  upon  assuming  the  control  of  the  Department,  pub- 
lished a  manifesto,  announcing  that  it  was  thenceforth  to  be  governed  "  upon 
the  principles  of  Christian  civilization." 

This  act  of  expulsion,  and  all  that  it  encloses,  is  the  outrage  to  which  I 
referred  in  my  opening  paragraph. 

I  have  had  the  honor,  which  I  esteem  a  very  high  one,  to  know  Walt  Whit- 
man intimately  for  several  years,  and  am  conversant  with  the  details  of  his 
life  and  history.  Scores  and  scores  of  persons,  who  know  him  well,  can  con- 
firm my  own  report  of  him,  and  I  have  therefore  no  hesitation  in  saying  that 
the  scandalous  assertions  of  Mr.  Harlan,  derived  from  whom  I  know  not,  as 
to  his  being  a  bad  man,  a  free  lover,  etc.,  belong  to  the  category  cf  those 
calumnies  at  which,  as  Napoleon  said,  innocence  itself  is  cor  founded.  A 
better  man  in  all  respects,  or  one  more  irreproachable  in  his  relations  to  the 
other  sex,  lives  not  upon  this  earth.  His  is  the  great  goodness,  the  great 
chastity  of  spiritual  strength  and  sanity.  I  do  not  L<^lieve  that  from  the  hour 
of  his  infancy,  when  Lafayette  held  him  in  his  arms,  to  the  present  hour,  in 
which  he  bends  over  the  last  wounded  and  dying  of  the  war,  any  one  can  say 
aught  of  him,  which  does  not  consort  with  the  largest  and  truest  manliness. 
I  am  perfectly  aware  of  the  miserable  lies  which  have  been  put  into  circula- 
tion respecting  him,  of  which  the  story  of  his  dishonoring  an  invitation  to 
dine  with  Emerson,  by  appearing  at  the  table  of  the  Astor  House  in  a  red 
shirt,  and  with  the  manners  of  a  rowdy,  is  a  mild  specimen.  I  know  too  the 
inferences  drawn  by  wretched  fools,  who,  because  they  have  seen  nim  riding 
apon  the  top  of  an  omnibus;  or  at  Pfaff's  restaurant;  or  dressed  in  rough 


102  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

clothes  suitable  for  his  purposes,  and  only  remarkable  because  the  wearer  was 
a  man  of  genius;  or  mixing  freely  and  lovingly,  like  Lucretius,  like  Rabe- 
lais, like  Francis  Bacon,  like  Rembrandt,  like  all  great  students  of  the  world, 
with  low  and  equivocal  and  dissolute  persons,  as  well  as  with  those  of  a  dif- 
ferent character,  must  needs  set  him  down  as  a  brute,  a  scallawag;  and  a 
criminal.  Mr.  Harlan's  allegations  are  of  a  piece  with  these.  If  I  could  as- 
sociate the  title  with  a  really  great  person,  or  if  the  name  of  man  were  not 
radically  superior,  I  should  say  that  for  solid  nobleness  of  character,  for  na- 
tive elegance  and  delicacy  of  soul,  for  a  courtesy  which  is  the  very  passion  of 
thoughtful  kindness  and  forbearance,  for  his  tender  and  paternal  respect 
and  manly  honor  for  woman,  for  love  and  heroism  carried  into  the  pettiest 
details  of  life,  and  for  a  large  and  homely  beauty  of  manners,  which  makes 
the  civilities  of  parlors  fantastic  and  puerile  in  comparison,  Walt  Whit- 
man deserves  to  be  considered  the  grandest  gentleman  that  treads  this  con- 
tinent. I  know  well  the  habits  and  tendencies  of  his  life.  They  are  all 
simple,  sane,  domestic,  worthy  of  him  as  one  of  an  estimable  family  and 
a  member  of  society.  He  is  a  tender  and  faithful  son,  a  good  brother, 
a  loyal  friend,  an  ardent  and  devoted  citizen.  He  has  been  a  laborer, 
working  successively  as  a  farmer,  a  carpenter,  a  printer.  He  has  been  a 
stalwart  editor  of  the  Republican  party,  and  often,  in  that  powerful  and 
nervous  prose  of  which  he  is  master,  done  yeoman's  service  for  the  great 
cause  of  human  liberty  and  the  imperial  conception  of  the  indivisible  Union. 
He  has  been  a  visitor  of  prisons,  a  protector  of  fugitive  slaves,  a  constant 
voluntary  nurse,  night  and  day,  at  the  hospitals,  from  t'le  beginning  of  the 
war  to  the  present  time;  a  brother  and  friend  through  life  to  the  neglected 
and  the  forgotten,  the  poor,  the  degraded,  the  criminal,  the  outcast,  turning 
away  from  no  man  for  his  guilt,  nor  woman  for  her  vilcness.  His  is  the 
strongest  and  truest  compassion  I  have  ever  known.  I  remember  here  the 
anecdote  told  me  by  a  witness,  of  his  meeting  in  a  by-street  in  Boston  a  poor 
ruffian,  one  whom  he  had  known  well  as  an  innocent  child,  now  a  fullgrown 
youth ,  vicious  far  beyond  his  years,  flying  to  Canada  from  the  pursuit  of  the  police, 
his  sin-trampled  features  bearing  marks  of  the  recent  bloody  brawl  in  New 
York,  in  which,  as  he  supposed,  he  had  k.iled  some  one;  and  having  heard 
his  hurried  story,  freely  confided  to  him,  Walt  Whitman,  separated  not  from 
the  bad  even  by  his  own  goodness,  with  well  I  know  what  tender  and  tranquil 
feeling  for  the  ruined  being,  and  with  a  love  which  makes  me  think  of  that 
love  of  God  which  deserts  not  any  creature,  quietly  at  parting,  after  assisting 
him  from  his  means,  held  him  for  a  moment,  with  his  arm  around  his  neck, 
and,  bending  to  the  face,  horrible  and  battered  and  prematurely  old,  kissed  hira 
on  the  cheek,  and  the  poor  hunted  wretch,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  low 
life,  receiving  a  token  of  love  and  compassion  like  a  touch  from  beyond  the 
sun,  hastened  away  in  deep  dejection,  sol)bing  and  in  tears.  It  reminds  me 
of  the  anecdotes  Victor  Hugo,  in  his  portraiture  of  Bishop  Myriel,  tells,  under 


The  Good  Gray  P^rA  (1865-6).  103 

a  thin  veil  of  fiction,  of  Charles  Miolles,  the  good  Eishop  of  Digne.  I  know 
not  what  talisman  Walt  Wliitman  carries,  unless  it  be  an  unexcluding  friend- 
liness and  goodness  which  is  felt  upon  his  approacii  like  magnetism ;  but  I 
know  that  in  the  subterranean  life  of  cities,  among  the  worst  roughs,  he  goes 
safely;  and  I  could  recite  instances  where  hands  that,  in  mere  wantonness  of 
ferocity,  assault  anybody,  ra  s- d  against  him,  have  of  their  own  accord  been 
lowered  almost  as  quickly,  or,  in  some  cases,  have  been  dragged  promptly 
down  by  others;  this,  too,  I  mean,  when  he  and  the  assaulting  gang  were 
mutual  strangers.  I  have  seen  singular  evidence  of  the  mysterious  quality 
which  not  only  guards  him,  but  draws  to  him  with  intuition,  rapid  as  light, 
simple  and  rude  people,  as  to  their  natural  mate  and  friend.  I  remember,  as 
I  passed  the  White  House  with  him  one  evening,  the  startled  feeling  with  which 
I  saw  a  soldier  on  guard  there — a  stranger  to  us  both,  and  with  something  in 
his  action  that  curiously  proved  that  he  was  a  stranger — suddenly  bring  his 
musket  to  the  "present"  in  military  salute  to  him,  quickly  mingling  with  this 
respect  due  to  his  colonel,  a  gesture  of  greeting  with  the  right  hand  as  to  a 
comrade,  grinning,  meanwhile,  good  fellow,  with  shy,  spontaneous  affection 
and  deference,  his  ruddy,  broad  face  glowing  in  the  flare  of  the  lampions.  I 
remember,  on  another  occasion,  as  I  crossed  the  street  with  him,  the  driver  of 
a  street-car,  a  stranger,  stopping  the  conveyance,  and  inviting  him  to  get  on 
and  ride  with  him.  Adventures  of  this  kind  are  frequent,  and  "  I  took  a  fancy 
to  you,"  or  "You  look  like  one  of  my  style,"  is  the  common  explanation  he 
gets  upon  their  occurrence.  It  would  be  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  per- 
sonal adhesion  and  strong,  simple  affection  given  him,  in  numerous  instances 
on  sight,  by  multitudes  of  plain  persons,  sailors,  mechanics,  drivers,  soldiers, 
farmers,  sempstresses,  old  people  of  the  past  generation,  mothers  of  families — 
those  powerful,  unlettered  persons,  among  whom,  as  he  says  in  his  book,  he 
has  gone  freely,  and  who  never  in  most  cases  even  sus[)ect  as  an  author  him 
whom  they  love  as  a  man,  and  who  loves  them  in  return. 

His  intellectual  influence  upon  many  young  men  and  women — spirits  of 
the  morning  sort,  not  willing  to  belong  to  that  intellectual  colony  of  Great 
Britain  which  our  literary  classes  compose,  nor  helplessly  tied,  like  them,  to 
the  old  forms — I  note  as  kindred  to  that  of  Socrates  upon  the  youth  of  ancient 
Attica,  or  Raleigh  upon  the  gallant  young  England  of  his  day.  It  is  a  power 
at  once  liberating,  instructing,  and  inspiiing. — His  conversation  is  a  university. 
Those  wlio  have  heard  him  in  some  roused  hour,  when  the  full  afflatus  of  his 
spirit  moved  him,  will  agree  with  me  that  the  grandeur  of  talk  was  accom- 
plished, lie  is  known  as  a  passionate  lover  and  powerful  critic  of  the  great 
music  and  of  art.  He  is  deeply  cultured  by  some  of  the  best  books,  especially 
those  of  the  lUble,  wliioh  lie  prefers  above  all  other  great  literature,  but  prin- 
cipally by  contact  and  communion  with  things  themselves,  which  literature 
can  only  mirror  and  celebrate.  He  has  travelled  through  most  of  the  United 
States,  intent  on  comprehending  and  absorbing  the  genius  and  history  of  his 


104  Appendix  to  Part  T. 

country,  that  he  might  rlo  his  best  to  start  a  literature  worthy  of  her,  sprung 
from  her  own  polity,  and  tallying  her  own  unexamj)le(l  magnificence  among 
the  nations.  To  the  same  end,  he  has  been  a  long,  patient,  and  laborious 
student  of  life,  mixing  intimately  with  all  varieties  of  experience  and  men, 
with  curiosity  and  with  love,  lie  has  given  his  thought,  his  life,  to  this  beau- 
tiful ambition,  and,  still  young,  he  has  grown  gray  in  its  service.  He  has 
never  married ;  like  Giordano  Bruno,  he  has  made  Thought  in  the  service  of 
his  fellow-creatures  his  bclla  donna,  his  best  beloved,  his  bride.  His  patriot- 
ism is  boundless.  It  is  no  intellectual  sentiment;  it  is  a  personal  passion. 
He  jierforms  with  scrupulous  fidelity  and  zeal  the  duties  of  a  citizen.  For 
eighteen  years,  not  missing  once,  his  ballot  has  dropped  on  every  national  and 
local  election  day,  and  his  inlluence  has  been  ardently  given  for  the  good 
cause.  Of  all  men  I  know,  his  life  is  most  in  the  life  of  the  nation.  I  re- 
member, when  the  (irst  draft  was  ordered,  at  a  time  when  he  was  already  per- 
forming an  arduous  and  j)eri!ous  duty  as  a  volunteer  attendant  upon  the 
wounded  in  the  field — a  duty  which  cost  him  the  only  illness  he  ever  had  in 
his  life,  and  a  very  severe  and  dangerous  illness  it  was,  the  result  of  poison 
absorbed  in  his  devotion  to  the  worst  cases  of  hospital  gangrene,  and  when  it 
would  have  been  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  evade  duty,  for  though  then 
only  forty-two  or  three  years  old,  and  subject  to  the  draft,  he  looked  a  hale 
sixty,  and  no  enrolling  officer  would  have  paused  for  an  in.-tant  before  his 
gray  hair — I  remember,  I  say,  how  anxious  and  careful  he  was  to  get  his 
name  put  on  the  enrolment  lists,  that  he  might  stand  his  chance  for  martial 
service.  This,  too,  at  a  time  when  so  many  gentlemen  were  skulking,  dodg- 
ing, agonizing  for  substitutes,  and  practising  every  conceivable  device  to  escape 
military  duty.  What  music  of  speech,  though  Cicero's  own — what  scarlet 
and  gold  superlatives  could  adorn  or  dignify  this  simple,  antique  trait  of 
jjrivate  heroism? — I  recall  his  love  for  little  children,  for  the  young,  and  for 
very  old  persons,  as  if  the  dawn  and  the  evening  twilight  of  life  awakened 
his  deepest  tenderness.  I  recall  the  affection  for  him  of  numbers  of  young 
men,  and  invariably  of  all  good  women.  Who,  knowing  him,  does  not  re- 
gard him  as  a  man  of  tlie  highc-t  spiritual  culture  ?  I  have  never  known  one 
of  greater  and  deeper  religious  leeling.  To  call  one  like  him  good  seems  an 
impertinence.  In  our  sweet  country  phrase,  he  is  one  of  Cod's  men.  And 
as  I  write  these  hurried  and  broken  memoranda — as  his  strength  and  sweet- 
ness of  nature,  his  moral  health,  his  rich  humor,  his  gent'eness,  his  serenity, 
his  charity,  his  simple-heartechr^ss,  his  courage,  his  deep  and  varied  knowl- 
edge of  life  and  men,  his  calm  wisdom,  his  singular  and  beautiful  boy-inno- 
cence, his  personal  majesty,  his  rough  scorn  of  mea'i  actions,  his  magnetic 
and  exterminating  anger  on  due  occasions — all  that  ^  have  seen  and  heard  of 
him,  the  testimony  of  associates,  the  anecdotes  of  fiient'-.,  the  remembrance 
of  hours  with  him  that  should  be  immortal,  the  traits,  liii' anents,  incidents  of 
his  life  and  being — as  they  come  crowding  into  mcmot/ — liis  seems  to  me  a 


The  Good  Gray  /l?^/.  (1865 -'6).  105 

character  which  only  the  heroic  pen;)f  Plutarch  could  record,  and  which 
Socrates  himself  might  emulate  or  envy. 

This  is  the  man  whom  Mr.  Harlan  charges  with  having  written  a  bad  book. 
I  might  ask,  How  long  is  it  since  bad  books  have  been  the  flower  of  good 
lives  ?  How  long  is  it  since  grape-vines  produced  thorns  or  fig-trees  thistles  ? 
But  Mr,  Harlan  says  the  book  is  bad  because  it  is  "  full  of  indecent  passages." 
This  allegation  has  been  brought  against  Leaves  of  Grass  before.  It  has 
been  sounded  long  and  strong  by  many  of  the  literary  journals  of  both  conti- 
ntnts.  As  criticism  it  is  legitimate.  I  may  contemn  the  mind  or  deplore  the 
moral  life  in  which  such  a  criticism  has  its  source;  still,  as  criticism  it  has  a 
right  to  existence.  But  Mr.  Harlan,  passing  the  limits  of  opinion,  inaugu- 
rates punishment.  He  joins  the  band  of  the  hostile  verdict;  he  incarnates 
their  judgment ;  then,  detaching  himself,  he  proceeds  to  a  solitary  and  signal 
vengeance.  As  far  as  he  can  have  it  so,  this  author,  for  having  written  his 
book,  shall  starve.  He  shall  starve,  and  his  name  shall  receive  a  brand. 
This  is  the  essence  of  Mr.  Harlan's  action.  It  is  a  dark  and  serious  step  to 
take.     Upon  what  grounds  is  it  taken  ? 

I  have  carefully  onunted  out  from  Walt  Whitman's  poetry  the  lines,  per- 
fectly moral  to  me,  whether  viewed  in  themselves  or  in  the  light  of  their  sub- 
lime  intentions  and  purport,  b-it  upon  which  ignorant  and  indecent  persons  of 
respectability  base  their  sweeping  condemnation  of  the  whole  work.  Taking 
Leaves  of  Grass,  and  the  recent  small  volume,  "  Drum-Taps"  (which  was  in 
Mr.  Harlan's  possession),  there  are  in  the  whole  about  nine  thousand  lines 
or  verses.  From  these,  including  matter  which  I  can  hardly  imagine  objec- 
tionable to  any  one,  but  counting  everything  which  the  most  malignant  virtue 
could  shrink  from,  I  have  culled  eighty  lines.  Eighty  lines  out  of  nine 
thousand  !  It  is  a  less  proportion  than  one  fmds  in  Shakespeare.  Upon  this 
so  slender  basis  rests  the  whole  crazy  fabric  of  American  and  European  slan- 
der and  the  brutal  lever  of  the  .Secretary. 

Now,  what  by  competent  authority  is  the  admitted  character  of  the  book 
in  which  these  lines  occur?  For,  though  it  is  more  than  proliable  that  Mr. 
Harlan  never  heard  of  the  work  till  the  hour  of  his  explorations  in  the  De- 
partment, I'le  intellectual  hemispheres  of  Great  Britain  and  America  have 
rung  with  it  from  side  to  side.  It  has  received  as  extensive  a  critical  notice, 
I  suppose,  as  has  ever  been  given  to  a  volume.  Had  it  been  received  only 
with  indifference  or  derision,  I  should  not  have  beer,  surprised.  In  an  age 
in  which  few  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  the  grand  literature— which  forgets 
the  superb  books  and  thinks  Buhver  moral,  and  Dickens  great,  and  Thack- 
eray a  real  satirist— which  gives  to  Macaulay  the  laurel  due  to  Herodotus,  and 
to  Tennyson  the  crown  reserved  for  Homer,  and  in  w  iiich  the  chairs  of  criti- 
cism seem  abandoned  to  squirts  and  pedagogues,  and  monks— a  mighty  poet 
has  little  to  expect  from  the  literary  press  save  unconcern  and  mockery.  But 
even   under  these   hard   conditions   the  tremendous   force  of   this  poet  has 


io6  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

achieved  a  relative  conquest,  and  the  t(jne  of  the  press  denotes  his  book  as  not 
merely  great,  but  illustrious.  Even  the  copious  torrents  of  abuse  which  have 
been  lavished  upon  it  have,  in  numerous  instances,  taken  the  form  of  tribute 
to  its  august  and  mysterious  power,  being  in  fact  identical  with  that  still 
vomited  upon  Montaigne  and  Juvenal.  On  the  other  hand,  eulogy,  very  lofty 
and  from  the  highest  sources,  has  spanned  it  with  sunbows.  Emerson,  our 
noblest  scholar,  a  name  to  which  Christendom  does  reverence,  a  critic  of 
piercing  insight  and  full  comprehension,  has  pronounced  it  "the  most  extra- 
ordinary piece  of  wit  and  wisdom  that  America  has  yet  contributed."  How 
that  austere  and  rare  spirit,  Thoreau,  regarded  it  may  be  partly  seen  by  his 
last  posthumous  volume.  He  thought  of  it,  I  have  heard,  with  measureless 
esteem,  ranking  it  with  the  vast  and  gorgeous  conceptions  of  the  Oriental 
bards.  It  has  been  reported  to  me  that  unpublished  letters,  received  in  this 
country  from  some  of  Europe's  greatest,  announce  a  similar  verdict.  The 
'•  North  -American  Review,"  unquestionably  the  highest  organ  of  American 
letters,  in  the  course  of  a  eulogistic  notice  of  the  work,  remarking  upon  the 
passages  which  Mr.  Harlan  has  treated  as  if  they  were  novel  in  literature,  ob- 
serves: "There  is  not  anything,  perhaps  (in  the  book),  which  .nodern  usage 
would  stamp  as  more  indelicate  than  are  some  passages  in  Homer.  There  is 
not  a  word  in  it  meant  to  attract  readers  by  its  grossness  as  there  is  in  half 
the  literature  of  the  last  century,  which  holds  its  place  unchallenged  on  the 
tables  of  our  drawing-rooms."  The  London  "  Dispatch,"  in  a  review  writ- 
ten by  the  Rev.  W.  J.  Fox,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  clergymen  in  Eng- 
land, after  commending  the  poems  for  "  their  strength  of  expression,  their 
fervor,  their  hearty  wholesomeness,  their  originality  and  freshness,  their  sin- 
gular harmony,"  etc.,  says  that,  "  in  the  unhesitating  frankness  of  a  man  who 
dares  to  call  simplest  things  by  their  plain  names,  conveying  also  a  large  sense 
of  the  beautiful,"  there  is  involved  "a  clearer  conception  of  what  manly 
modesty  really  is  than  in  anything  we  have  in  all  conventional  forms  of  word, 
deed,  or  act,  so  far  known  of,"  and  concludes  by  declaring  that  "  the  author 
will  soon  make  his  way  intc  the  confidence  of  his  readers,  and  his  poems  in 
time  will  become  a  pregnant  text-book,  from  which  quotations  as  sterling  as 
the  minted  gold  will  be  taken  and  applied  to  every  form  of  the  inner  and  the 
outer  life."  The  London  •'  Leader,"  one  of  the  foremost  of  the  British  liter- 
ary journals,  in  a  re.  .ew  which  more  nearly  approaches  perception  of  the  true 
character  atid  purport  of  the  book  than  any  I  have  seen,  has  the  following 
sentences : 

"  Mr.  Emerson  recognized  the  first  issue  of  the  Leaves,  and  hastened  to 
welcome  the  author,  then  totally  unknown.  Among  other  things,  said 
Emerson  to  the  new  avatar,  •  I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  grcai  career 
which  yet  must  have  had  a  long  foreground  sotne^vhere  for  such  a  starts 
The  last  clause  was,  however,  overlooked  entirely  by  the  critics,  who  treated 
the  new  author  as  one  self-educated,  yet  in  the  rough,  unpolished,  and  owing 
nothing  to  instruction.     The  authority  for  so  treating  the  author  was  derived 


The  Good  Gray  Poet.  (i865-'6).  107 

from  himself,  who  thus  described  in  one  of  his  poems,  his  person,  character, 
and  name,  having  omitted  the  last  from  the  title-page, 

'Walt  Whitman,  an  American,  one  of  the  roughs,  a  kosmos. 
Disorderly,  fleshy,  and  sensual,'— 

and  in  various  other  passages  confessed  to  all  the  vices,  as  well  as  the  virtues, 
of  man.  All  this,  with  intentional  wrong-headedness,  was  attributed  by  the 
sapient  reviewers  to  the  individual  writer,  and  not  to  the  suI)jective-hero  sup- 
posed to  be  writing.  Notwithstamling  the  word  'kosmos,'  the  writer  was 
taken  to  be  an  ignorant  man.  Emerson  perceived  at  once  that  there  had 
been  a  long  foreground  somew  here  or  somehow  ;— not  so  they.  Every  page 
teems  with  knowledge,  with  information;  but  they  saw  it  not.  because  it  did 

not  answer  their  purpose  to  see   it The  p(jem  in  which  the  word 

•  kosmos '  appears  explains  in  fact  the  whole  mystery— nay,  the  word  itself 
exi)lains  it.  The  poem  is  nominally  upon  himself,  but  really  includes  every- 
body.    It  begins: 

'  I  celebrate  myself. 

And  what  I  ,-is>ume,  you  rhall  assume; 
For  every  atom  belonging  to  me,  as  good  belongs  to  you.' 

Tn  a  \yord,  Walt  Whitman  represents  the  kosmical  man— he  is  the  AnAMUS  of 
the  Nhu'fcenth  century— not  an  imiixndual,  but  MANKIND.  As  such,  in  cele- 
brating himself,  he  proceeds  to  celebrate  universal  humanity  in  its  attiii)utes, 
and  accordingly  commences  his  dithyramb  with  the  five  senses,  i)eginning  with 
that  of  smell.  Afterwards,  he  deals  with  tlie  intellectual,  rational,  and  moral 
powers,  showing  throughout  his  treatment  an  intimate  ac(|uaintance  with 
Kant's  transcendental  method,  and  perhaps  including  in  his  development  the 
whole  of  the  German  school,  down  to  Hegel— at  any  rate  as  interpreted  by 
Cousin  and  others  in  France  and  Emerson  in  the  United  .States.  He  cer- 
tainly includes  Ficlite,  for  he  mentions  the  egotist  as  the  only  true  philosopher, 
and  consistently  identifies  himself  not  only  with  every  man,  but  with  the  uni- 
verse and  its  Maker;  and  it  is  in  doing  so  that  the  strength  of  his  description 
consists.  It  is  from  such  an  ideal  elevation  that  he  looks  down  on  Good  and 
Evil,  regards  them  as  equal,  and  extends  to  them  the  like  measure  of  ecpiity.  .  .  . 
Instead,  therefore,  of  regarding  these  Leaves  of  G'rass  as  a  marvel,  they  see'in 
to  us  as  the  most  natural  product  of  the  American  soil.  They  are  certainly 
filled  with  an  American  spirit,  breathe  the  American  air,  and  assert  the  fullest 
American  freedom."  The  passages  characterized  by  the  Secretary  as  "  inde- 
cent"  are,  adds  the  "  Leader,"  "only  so  many  instances  adduced  in  support 
of  a  philosophical  principle,  not  meant  for  obscenity,  but  for  scientific  exam- 
ples introduced,  as  they  might  be  in  any  legal,  medical,  or  philosophical 
book,  for  the  purpose  of  instruction." 

I  could  multiply  these  excerpts;  but  here  are  sufficient  specimens  of  the 
competent  judgments  of  eminent  scholars  and  divines,  testifying  to  the  intel- 
lectual and  moral  grandeur  of  this  work.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  there  is 
nothing  in  the  book  that  in  one  form  or  another  is  not  contained  in  all  great 
poetic  or  universal  literature.  It  has  nothing  either  in  (piantity  or  (juality  so 
oflensive  as  everybody  knows  is  in  Shakespeare.  All  that  this  poet  has  done 
is  to  mention,  without  levity,  without  low  language,  very  seriously,  often  de- 
voutly, always  simply,  certain  facts  in  the  natural  history  of  man  and  of  life, 


io8  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

and  sometimes,  assuming  their  sanctify,  to  use  them  in  illustration  or  imagery. 
Far  more  questional)Ie  mention  and  use  of  these  facts  are  common  to  the 
greatest  literature.  Shall  the  presence  in  a  book  of  eighty  lines,  similar  in 
character  to  what  every  great  and  noble  poetic  book  contains,  be  sutficiunt  to 
shove  it  below  even  the  lewd  writings  of  Petronius  Arbiter,  tlie  dirty  dramas 
of  Shirley,  or  the  scrofulous  fiction  of  Louvet  de  Couvray  ?  to  lump  it  in  with 
the  anonymous  lascivious  trash  spawned  in  holes  and  sold  in  corners,  too  wit- 
less and  disgusting  for  any  notice  !jut  that  of  the  police — and  to  entitle  its  author 
to  treatment  such  as  only  the  nameless  wretches  of  the  very  sewers  of  author- 
ship ought  to  receive? 

If,  rising  to  the  utmost  cruelty  of  conception,  I  can  dare  add  to  the  calami- 
ties of  genius  a  misery  so  degrading  and  extreme  as  to  imagine  the  great 
authors  of  the  world  cond>imned  to  clerkships  under  Mr.  Harlan,  I  can  at 
least  mitigate  that  dream  of  wretchedness  and  insult  by  adding  the  fancy  of 
their  fate  under  the  action  of  his  principles.  Let  me  suppose  them  there,  and 
he  still  magnifymg  the  calling  of  the  Secretary  into  that  of  literary  headsman. 
He  opens  the  great  book  of  Genesis.  Everywhere  "indecent  passages." 
The  mother  hushes  the  child,  and  bids  him  skip  as  he  reads  aloud  that  first 
great  history.  It  cannot  be  read  aloud  in  "drawing-rooms"  by  "gentlemen" 
and  "  ladies."  The  fretn  use  of  language,  the  plainest  terms,  frank  mention 
of  forbidden  subjects;  the  story  of  Onan,  of  Hagar  and  Sarai,  of  Lot  and  his 
daughters,  of  Isaac,  Rebekah,  and  Abimelech,  of  Jacob  and  Leah,  of  Reuben 
and  Bilhah;  of  Potiphar's  wife  and  Joseph;  tabooed  allusion  and  statement 
everywhere;  no  veils,  no  euphemism,  no  delicacy,  no  meal  in  the  mouth  any- 
where. Uut  with  Moses!  The  cloven  splendor  on  that  awful  brow  shall  not 
save  him. 

Mr.  Harlan  takes  up  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey.  The  loves  of  Jupiter  and 
Juno,  the  dalliance  of  Achilles  and  Patroclus  with  their  women;  tlie  perfectly 
frank,  undraped  reality  of  Greek  life  and  manners  naively  shown  without  re- 
gard to  the  feelings  of  Christian  civihzees — horrible!     Out  with  Homer! 

Here  is  Lucretius:  Mr.  Harlan  opens  the  "  De  Rerum  Natura,"  and  reads 
the  vast,  benign,  majestic  lines,  sad  with  the  shadow  of  the  intelligible  uni- 
verse upon  them;  sublime  with  the  tragic  problems  of  the  Infinite ;  august 
with  their  noble  love  and  compassion  for  mankind.  But  what  is  this?  "  Ut 
([uasi  transactis  soepe  omnibus  rebus,"  etc.  And  this :  "  Mori  ferarum  quad- 
rupedumque  magis  ritu."  And  this:  "  Nam  rnulier  prohibet  se  consipere 
atquc  rcpugnat,"  etc.  And  this:  "Quod  pctiere,  premunt  arete,  faciuntque 
dolorem,"  etc.  Enough.  Fine  language,  fine  illustrations,  fine  precepts, 
pretty  decency !  Out  with  Lucretius !  Out  with  the  chief  poet  of  the  Tiber 
side ! 

Here  is  yEschylus;  a  dark  ni.ignificence  of  cloud,  all  rough  with  burning 
gold,  which  thunders  and  drips  blciod  !  T'le  Greek  Shakespeare.  The  gor- 
geous and  terrible  /Eschylus!     What  is  tliis  in  the  "  Prometheuii "  about  Jove 


The  Good  Gray  Poet.  (i865-'6).  109 

and  lo  ?  What  sort  of  detail  is  that  which,  at  the  distance  of  ten  years, 
I  remember  amazed  Mr.  Buckley  as  he  translated  the  Agamemnon  ?  What 
kind  of  talk  is  this  in  the  "  Choephori,"  in  "  The  Suppliants,"  and  in  the  frag- 
ments of  the  comic  drama  of  "  The  Argians  "  ?     Out  with  yEschylus  ! 

Here  is  the  sublime  book  of  Ezekiel.  All  the  Hebrew  grandeur  at  its 
fullest  is  there.  But  look  at  this  blurt  of  coarse  words,  hurled  direct  as  the 
prophet-mouth  can  hurl  them — this  familiar  reference  to  functions  and  organs 
voted  out  of  language — this  bread  for  human  lips  baked  with  ordure — these 
details  of  the  scortatory  loves  of  Aholah  and  Aholibah.  Enough.  Dismiss 
this  dreadful  majesty  of  Hebrew  poetry.  He  has  no  "  taste."  He  is  "  inde- 
cent."    Out  with  Ezekiel ! 

Here  is  Dante.  Open  the  tremendous  pages  of  the  "  Inferno."  What  is 
this  about  the  she-wolf  Can  Grande  will  kill  ?  What  picture  is  this  of  strum- 
pet Thais? — ending  with  the  lines: 

"Taida  e,  la  puttana  cbe  rispose 
Al  drudo  suo,  quando  disse :    Ho  io  grazie 
Grand!  appo  tc?     Anzi  meravigliose." 


What  is  this  also  in  the  eighteenth  canto  ? 


"Quivi  venimmo,  e  qiiindi  giii  nel  fosso 
Vidi  gente  attutTata  in  uno  stereo 
Che  dagli  uman  privati  parea  mosso : 
E  mentre  ch'  lo  li  giii  con  I'occhio  cerco, 
Vidi  un  col  capo  si  di  merda  lordo, 
Che  non  parea  s'era  laico  o  cherco." 

What  is  this  line  at  the  end  of  the  twenty-first  canto,  which   even  John  Car- 
lyle  flinches  from  translating,  but  which  Dante  did  not  flinch  from  writing? 

"Ed  egli  avea  del  cul  fatto  trombetta." 

And  look  at  these  lines  in  the  twenty-eighth  canto: 

"GiA  reggia,  per  mezzul  perdere  o  luila 
Coin'  io  vidi  un,  cosi  non  ri  pcrtugia 
Rotto  dal  mcnto  insin  dove  si  truUa." 

That  will  do.     Dante,  too,  has  *'  indecent  passages."     Out  with  Dante  ! 

Here  is  the  book  of  Job :  the  vast  Arabian  landscape,  the  picturesque 
pastoral  details  of  Arabian  life,  the  last  tragic  immensity  of  Oriental  sorrow, 
the  whole  overarching  sky  of  Oriental  piety,  are  here.  But  here  also  the 
inevitable  '•  indecency."  Instead  of  the  virtuous  fiction  of  the  tansy  bed.  Job 
actually  has  the  indelicacy  to  state  how  man  is  born — even  mentions  the  belly ; 
talks  about  tiic  gendering  of  bulls,  and  the  miscarriage  of  cows  ;  uses  rank 
idioms ;  and  in  the  thirty-first  chapter  especially,  indulges  in  a  strain  of  thought 


1 10  Appendix  to  Part  L 

and  expression  which  it  is  amazing  does  not  bring  down  upon  him,  even  at 
this  late  date,  the  avalanches  of  our  lofty  and  pure  reviews.  Here  is  certainly 
"an  immoral  poet."     Out  with  Job! 

Here  is  I'lutarch,  prince  of  biographers,  and  Herodotus,  flower  of  historians. 
What  have  we  now  ?  Traits  of  character  not  to  be  mentioned,  incidents  of 
conduct,  accounts  of  manners,  minute  details  of  customs,  which  our  modern 
historical  dandies  would  never  venture  upon  recording.  Out  with  Plutarch 
and  Herodotus! 

Here  is  Tacitus.  What  statement  of  crimes  that  ought  not  to  be  hinted  ? 
Does  the  man  gloat  over  such  things?  What  dreadful  kisses  are  these  of 
Agrippina  to  Nero — the  mother  to  the  son  ?  Out  with  Tacitus !  And  since 
there  are  books  that  ought  to  be  publicly  burned,*  by  all  means  let  the  stern 
grandeur  of  that  rhetoric  be  lost  in  flame. 

Here  is  Shakespeare:  "indecent  passages"  everywhere — every  drama, 
every  poem  thickly  inlaid  with  them ;  all  that  men  do  displayed,  sexual  acts 
treated  lightly,  jested  about,  i.ientioned  obscenely;  the  language  never  bolted; 
slang,  gross  puns,  lewd  words,  in  profusion.     Out  with  Shakespeare ! 

Here  is  the  Canticle  of  Canticles :  beautiful,  voluptuous  poem  of  love 
liberally,  whatever  be  its  mystic  significance;  glowing  with  the  color,  odorous 
with  tlie  spices,  melodious  with  the  voices  of  the  East ;  sacred  and  exquisite 
and  pure  with  the  burning  chastity  of  passion,  which  completes  and  exceeds 
the  snowy  chastity  of  virgins.  This  to  me,  but  what  to  the  Secretary  ?  Can 
he  endure  that  the  female  form  should  stand  thus  in  a  poem,  disrobed,  un- 
veiled, bathed  in  erotic  splendor?  Look  at  these  voluptuous  details,  this 
expression  of  desire,  'his  amorous  tone  and  glow,  this  consecration  and  per- 
fume lavished  upon  the  sensual.     No !     Out  with  Solomon  ! 

Here  is  Isaiah.  The  grand  thunder-roll  of  that  righteousness,  like  the  lion- 
roar  of  Jehovah  above  the  guilty  world,  utters  coarse  words.  Amidst  the 
bolted  lightnings  of  that  sublime  denunciation,  coarse  thoughts,  indelicate 
figures,  indecent  allusions,  flash  upon  the  sight,  like  gross  imagery  in  a  mid- 
night landscape.     Out  with  Isaiah  ! 

Here  is  Montaigne.  Open  those  great,  those  virtuous  pages  of  the  unflinch- 
ing reporter  of  man;  the  soul  all  truth  and  daylight,  all  candor,  probity, 
sincerity,  reality,  eyesight.  A  few  glances  will  suffice.  Cant  and  vice  and 
sniffle  have  groaned  over  these  pages  before.     Out  with  Montaigne ! 

Here  is  Hafiz,  the  Anacreon  of  Persia,  but  more  ;  a  banquet  of  wine  in  a 
garden  of  roses,  the  nightingales  singing,  the  laughing  revellers  high  with 
festal  joy ;  but  a  heavenly  flame  burns  on  every  brow ;  a  tone  not  of  this 
sphere  is  in  all  the  music,  all  the  Uughter,  all  the  songs  ;  a  light  of  the  Inflnite 
trembles  over  every  chalice  and  rests  on  every  flower ;  and  all  the  garden  is 
divine.     Still  when  Haiiz  cries  out,  "  Bring  me  wine,  and  bring  the  famed 

*  Mr.  Harlan  had  said  that  Leaves  of  Grass  ought  to  be  publicly  burned. 


The  Good  Gray  Poct.{\%6%~G).  in 

veiled  beauty,  the  Princess  of  the  brothel,"  etc.,  or  issues  similar  orders,  Mr. 
Ilarlan,  whose  virtue  does  not  understand  or  endure  such  metaphors,  must 
deal  sternly  with  this  kosmic  man  of  Persia.     Out  with  Hafiz ! 

Here  is  Virgil,  otnate  and  splendid  poet  of  old  Rom";  a  master  with  a 
greater  pupil,  Alighieri — a  bard  above  whose  ashes  Boccaccio  kneels  a  trader 
and  arises  a  soldier  of  mankind.  But  he  must  lose  those  fadeless  chaplets, 
the  undying  green  of  a  noble  fame ;  for  here  in  the  "  .iEneid  "  is  "  Dixerat; 
et  nivcis  hinc  atquc  hinc  Diva  lacertis,"  etc.,  and  here  in  the  "  Georgics  "  is 
•'  Quo  rapiat  sitiens  Veneren>,  interiusque  recondat,"  etc.,  and  there  are  other 
verses  like  these.     Out  with  Virgil ! 

Here  is  Swedenborg.  Open  this  poem  in  prose,  the  "  Conjugial  Love,"  to 
me,  a  temple,  though  in  ruins ;  the  sacred  fane,  clothed  in  mist,  filled  with 
moonlight,  of  a  great  though  broken  mind.  What  spittle  of  critic  epithets  stains 
all  here?  "Lewd,"  ".sensual,"  "lecherous,"  "coarse,"  "licentious,"  etc. 
Of  course  these  judgments  are  final.  There  is  no  appeal  from  the  tobacco- 
juice  of  an  expectorating  and  disdainful  virtue.     Out  with  Swedenborg ! 

Here  is  Goethe :  the  horrified  squealing  of  prudes  is  not  yet  silent  over  pages 
of  "  Wilhelm  Meistcr :  "  that  high  and  chaste  book,  the  "  Elective  Affinities," 
still  pumps  up  oaths  from  clergymen :  Walpurgis  has  hardly  ceased  its  uproar 
over  P'aust.     Out  with  Goethe  ! 

Here  is  Byron:  grand,  dark  poet;  a  great  spirit — a  soul  like  the  ocean; 
generous  lover  of  America;  fiery  trumpet  of  liberty;  a  sword  for  the  human 
cause  in  Greece ;  a  torch  for  the  human  mind  in  "  Cain ;  "  a  life  that  redeemed 
its  every  fault  by  taking  a  side,  which  was  the  human  side ;  tempest  of  scorn 
in  his  first  poem,  tempest  of  scorn  and  laughter  in  his  last  poem,  only  agrdnst 
the  things  that  wrong  man;  vast  bud  of  the  Infinite  that  Death  alone  pre- 
vented from  its  vaster  flower;  immense,  seminal,  electrical,  dazzling  Byron. 
But  Beppo — O !  But  Don  Juan — O,  fie !  Not  to  mention  the  Countess 
Guiccioli — ah,  me  !   Prepare  quickly  the  yellow  envelope,  and  out  with  Byron  ! 

Here  is  Cervantes:  open  "Don  Quixote,"  paragon  of  romances,  highest 
result  of  Spain,  best  and  sufficient  reason  for  her  life  among  the  nations,  a 
laughing  novel  which  is  a  weeping  poem.  But  talk  such  as  this  of  Sancho 
Panza  and  Tummas  Cecial  under  the  cork  trees,  and  these  coarse  stories  and 
bawdy  words,  and  this  free  and  gross  comedy — is  it  to  be  endured  ?  Out  with 
Cervantes ! 

Here  is  another,  a  sun  of  literature,  moving  in  a  vast  orbit  with  dazzling 
plenitudes  of  power  and  beauty;  the  one  only  modern  European  poet  and 
novelist  worthy  to  rank  with  the  first;  permanent  among  the  fleeting;  a  demi- 
god of  letters  among  the  pigmies ;  a  soul  of  the  antique  strength  and  sadness, 
worthy  to  stand  as  the  representative  of  the  high  thought  and  hopes  of  the 
Nineteenth  century — Victor  Hugo.  Now  open  "  Les  Misferables."  See  the  great 
passages  which  the  American  translator  softens  and  the  English  translator 
tears  away.     Open  this  other  book  of  his,  "  William  Shakespeare,"  a  book 


112  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

with  only  one  grave  fault,  the  omission  of  the  words  "a  Poem"  from  the  title- 
page  ;  a  l)Ook  whicli  is  the  courageous  arch,  the  comprehending  sky  of  criticism, 
but  which  no  American  publisher  will  dare  to  issue,  or  if  he  docs  will  expur- 
gate.    Out  with  Hugo,  of  course! 

Here  is  Juvenal,  terrible  and  splendid  fountain  of  all  satire;  inspiration  of 
all  just  censure;  exemplar  of  all  noble  rage  at  baseness;  satirist  and  moral- 
ist sublimed  into  the  poet ;  the  scowl  of  the  unclouded  noon  above  the  low 
streets  of  folly  and  of  sin.  But  what  he  withers,  he  also  shows.  The  sun-stroke 
of  his  poetry  reveals  what  it  kills.  Juvenal  tells  all.  His  fidelity  of  exposure 
is  frightful.     Mr.  Harlan  would  make  short  work  of  him.    Out  with  Juvenal ! 

Open  the  divine  "  Apocalypse."  What  words  are  these  among  the  thunder- 
ingsand  lightnings  and  voices?  Is  this  a  poem  to  be  read  uloud  in  parlors? 
(for  such  appears  to  be  the  test  of  propriety  and  purity).  At  least,  John  might 
have  been  a  little  more  choice  in  language.  Some  of  these  texts  are  "  indecent." 
Yes,  indeed!     John  must  go! 

Here  is  Spenser.  Encyclopcedic  poet  of  the  ideal  chivalry.  It  is  all  there. 
Amadis,  Esplandian,  Tirante  the  White,  Palmerin  of  England,  all  those 
Paladin  romances  were  but  the  leaves ;  this  is  the  flower.  A  lost  dream  of  valor, 
chastity,  courtesy,  glory — a  dream  that  marks  an  age  of  human  history — glim- 
mers here,  far  in  these  depths,  and  makes  this  unexplored  oljscurity  divme. 
•»  But  is  the  '  FaSrv  Queen '  such  a  book  as  you  would  wish  to  put  into  the 
hands  of  a  lady?"  What  a  question  1  Has  it  not  been  expurgated  ?  Out 
with  .Spenser ! 

Here  is  another,  a  true  soldier  of  the  human  emancipation;  one  who  smites 
amid  uproars  of  laughter;  the  master  of  Titanic  farce;  a  whirlwind  and  earth- 
quake of  derision — Rabelais.  A  nice  one  for  Mr.  Harlan  !  One  glimpse  at 
the  chapter  which  explains  why  the  miles  lengthen  as  you  leave  Paris,  or  at 
the  details  of  the  birth  and  nurture  of  Gargantua,  will  suffice.  Out  with 
Rabelais — out  with  the  great  jester  of  France,  as  Lord  Bacon  calls  him ! 

And  here  is  Lord  Bacon  himself,  in  one  of  whose  pages  you  may  read,* 
done  from  the  Latin  by  Spedding  into  a  magnificent  golden  thunder  of  Eng- 
lish, the  absolute  defence  of  the  free  spirit  of  the  great  authors,  coupled  with 
stern  rebuke  to  the  spirit  that  would  pick  and  choose,  as  dastard  and  effemi- 
nate.    Out  with  Lord  Bacon  I 

Not  him  only,  not  these  only,  not  only  the  writers  are  under  the  ban.  Here 
is  Phidias,  gorgeous  sculptor  in  gold  and  ivory,  giant  dreamer  of  the  Infinite 
in  marble  ;  but  he  will  not  use  the  fig-leaf.  Here  is  Rembrandt,  who  paints 
the  Holland  landscape,  the  Jew,  the  beggar,  the  burgher,  in  lights  and  glooms 
of  Eternity;  and  his  pictures  have  been  called  "  indecent."  Here  is  Mozart, 
his  music  rich  with  the  sumptuous  color  of  all  sunsets;  and  it  has  been  called 
"sensual."     Here  is  Michael  Angelo,  who  makes  art  tremble  with  a  new  and 

*  Novum  Organum  ;  Aphorism  CXX. 


The  Good  Gray  P<?rA  (1865-6).  1 13 

strange  afflatus,  and  gives  Europe  novel  and  sublime  forms  that  tower  above 
the  centuries,  and  accost  the  Greek  ;  and  his  works  have  been  called  "  bestial  "  ! 
Out  with  them  all ! 

Now,  except  Virgil,  for  vassalage  to  lilerary  models,  and  for  grave  and  sad 
falsehood  to  liberty;  except  Goethe  for  his  lack  of  the  final  ecstacy  of  self- 
surrender  which  completes  a  poet,  and  for  coldness  to  the  great  mother,  one's 
country;  except  Spenser  for  his  remoteness,  and  Byron  for  his  immaturity, 
and  there  is  not  one  of  those  I  have  named  that  does  not  belong  to  the  first 
order  of  human  intellect.  Rut  no  need  to  make  discriminations  here;  they 
are  all  great;  they  have  all  striven;  they  have  all  served.  Moses,  Homer, 
LucreMus,  /Kschylus,  Ezekiel,  Dante,  Job,  Plutarch,  Herodotus,  Tacitus, 
Shakespeare,  Solomon,  Isalaii,  Montaigne,  Ilafiz,  Virgil,  Swedenborg,  Goethe, 
I5yron,  Cervantes,  Hugo,  Juvenal,  John,  Spenser,  Rabelais,  Bacon,  Phidias, 
Rembrandt,  Mozart,  Angelo — these  are  among  the  demigods  of  human 
thought ;  the  souls  that  have  loved  and  suffered  for  the  race ;  the  light- 
bringers,  the  teachers,  the  lawgivers,  the  consolers,  the  liberators,  the  inspired 
insjiirers  of  mankind ;  the  noble  and  gracious  beings  who,  in  the  service  of 
humanity,  have  borne  every  cross  and  earned  every  crown.  There  is  not  one 
of  them  that  is  not  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  thoughtful  men.  But  not  one  of  them 
do  the  rotten  taste  and  morals  of  the  Nineteenth  century  spare.  Not  oni;  of 
them  is  qualified  to  render  work  for  bread  under  this  Secretary  !  Do  I  err  ?  Do 
I  exaggerate  ?  I  write  without  access  to  the  books  I  mention  (it  is  fitting  that 
this  piece  of  insolent  barbarism  should  have  been  committed  in  almost  the 
only  important  American  city  which  is  without  a  public  library  !) — and  with  the 
cxcc[)tion  of  three  or  four  volumes  which  I  happen  to  have  by  me,  I  am 
obliged  to  rely  for  my  statements  on  the  memory  of  youthful  readings,  eight 
or  ten  years  ago.  But  name  me  one  book  of  the  first  order  in  which  such 
passages  as  I  refer  to  do  not  occur!  Tell  me  who  can — what  poet  of  the 
first  grade  escapes  this  brand  "  immoral,"  or  this  spittle  "  indecent"  ? 

If  the  great  books  are  not,  in  the  point  under  consideration,  in  the  same 
moral  category  as  Leazss  of  Grass,  then  why,  either  in  translation  or  in  the 
originals,  either  by  a  bold  softening  which  dissolves  the  author's  meaning,  or 
by  absolute  excision,  are  they  nearly  all  expurgated  ?  Answer  me  that.  By 
one  process  or  the  other,  Brizeux,  Gary,  Wright,  Cayley,  Carlyle,  everybody, 
expurgates  Dante ;  Langhorne  and  others  expurgate  Plutarch ;  Potter  and 
others  expurgate  /Eschylus ;  Gifford,  Anthon  and  others  expurgate  Juvenal ; 
Creech,  Watson  and  others  expurgate  Lucretius;  Bowdler  and  others  expur- 
gate Shakespeare;  Nott  (I  believe  it  is)  expurgates  Hafiz;  Wraxall  and 
\Vilbour  expurgate  Hugo;  Kirkland,  Hart  and  others  expurgate  Spenser; 
somebody  expurgates  Virgil;  somebody  expurgates  Byron;  the  Oxford 
scholars  dilute  Tacitus;  Lord  Derby  expurgates  Homer,  besides  making  him 
as  ridiculous  as  the  plucked  cock  of  Diogenes  in  translation  ;  several  hands 
expurgate  Goethe;  und  A.rchbishop  Tillotson  in  design  expurgates  Moses, 

10 


114  Appendix  to  Part  /. 

Ezekiel,  Solomon,  Isaiah,  St.  John,  and  all  the  others — a  job  which  Dr.  Noah 
Webster  executes,  but,  thank  God,  cannot  popularize.  What  book  is  spared  ? 
Nothing  but  a  chain  of  circumstances,  which  one  might  fancy  divinely 
ordained,  saves  us  the  relatively  unmutilaled  Bible.  Nearly  every  other  great 
book  bleeds.  When  one  is  not  expurgated,  the  balance  is  restored  by  its  being 
cordially  abused.  Thanks  to  the  splendid  conscience  and  courage  of  Mr. 
Wight,  we  can  read  Montaigne  in  English  without  the  omission  of  a  single 
word.  Thanks  also  to  Smollett,  Motteux  and  others,  Cervantes  has  gone 
untouched,  and  we  have  not  as  yet  a  family  Rabelais.  Neither  have  we  as 
yet  a  family  Mankind  nor  a  family  Universe ;  but  this  is  an  oversight  which 
will,  doubtless,  be  repaired  in  time.  God's  works  will  also,  doubtless,  be 
expurgated  whenever  it  is  possible.  Why  not  ?  One  step  to  this  end  is  taken 
in  the  expurgation  of  Genius,  which  is  His  second  manifestation,  as  Nature  is 
His  first !  Go  on,  gentlemen !  You  will  yet  have  things  as  "  moral "  as  you 
desire! 

I  am  aware  that  as  far  as  his  opinion,  not  his  act,  is  concerned,  Mr.  Harlan, 
however  unintelligently,  represents  to  some  extent  the  shallow  conclusions  of 
his  age,  and  I  know  it  will  be  said  that  if  the  great  books  contain  these  pas- 
sages, they  ought  to  be  expurgated.  It  is  not  my  design  to  endeavor  to  put  a 
quart  into  people  who  only  hold  a  gill,  nor  would  I  waste  time  in  endeavoring 
to  convert  a  large  class  of  persons  whom  I  once  heard  Walt  Whitman  de- 
scribe, with  his  usual  Titanic  richness  and  strength  of  phrase,  as  "  the  immut- 
able granitic  pudding-heads  of  the  world."  But  there  is  a  better  class  than 
these ;  and  I  am  filled  with  measureless  amazement,  that  persons  of  high  in- 
telligence, living  to  the  age  of  maturity,  do  not  perceive,  at  least,  the  immense 
and  priceless  scientific  and  human  uses  of  such  passages,  and  the  conse- 
quent necessity,  transcending  and  quashing  all  minor  considerations,  of 
having  them  where  they  are.  But  look  at  these  sad  sentences — a  complete 
and  felicitous  statement  of  the  whole  modern  doctrine — in  the  pages  of  a 
man  I  love  and  revere :  "  The  literature  of  three  centuries  ago  is  not  decent 
to  be  read ;  we  expurgate  it.  Within  a  hundred  years,  woman  has  become 
a  reader,  and  for  that  reason,  as  much  as,  or  more  than,  anything  else,  litera- 
ture has  sprung  to  a  higher  level.  No  need  now  to  expurgate  all  you  read." 
He  goes  on  to  argue  that  literature  in  the  next  century  will  be  richer  than 
in  the  classic  epochs,  because  woman  will  contribute  to  it  as  an  author — 
her  contribution,  I  infer,  to  be  of  the  kind  that  will  not  need  expurgating. 
These,  I  repeat,  are  sad  sentences.  If  they  are  true,  Bowdler  is  right  to 
expurgate  Shakespeare,  and  Noah  Webster  the  Bible.  But  no,  they  are  not 
true !  I  welcome  woman  into  art ;  bui  when  she  comes  there  grandly,  she 
will  not  come  either  as  expurgator  or  creator  of  emasculate  or  partial  forms. 
Woman,  grand  in  art,  is  Rosa  Bonheur,  painting  with  fearless  pencil  the 
surly,  sublime  Jovian  bull,  equipped  for  masculine  use ;  painting  the  power- 
ful, ramping  stallion  in  his  amorous  pride ;  not  weakly  nor  meanly  flinch- 


The  Good  Gray  Poet.  (i865-'6).  115 

ing  from  the  full  celebration  of  what  God  has  made.  Woman,  grand  in 
art,  will  come  creating  in  forms,  however  novel,  the  aljsolute,  the  permanent, 
the  real,  the  evil  and  the  good,  as  /Eschylus,  as  Cervantes,  as  Shakespeare 
before  her;  with  sex,  with  truth,  with  universality,  without  omissions  or 
concealments.  And  woman,  as  the  ideal  reader  of  literature,  is  not  the 
indelicate  prude,  flushing  and  squealing  over  some  frank  page ;  it  is  that 
high  and  beautiful  soul,  Marie  de  Gournay,  devoutly  absorbing  the  work  of 
her  master  Montaigne,  finding  it  all  great,  greatly  comprehending,  greatly 
accepting  it  all ;  fronting  its  license  and  grossness  without  any  of  the  livid 
shuddering  of  Puritans,  and  looking  on  the  book  in  the  same  universal  and 
kindly  spirit  as  its  author  looked  upon  the  world.  Woman  reading  otherwise 
than  thus — shrinking  from  Apuleius,  from  Rabelais,  from  Aristophanes,  from 
Shakespeare,  from  even  Wychcrley,  or  Petronius,  or  Aretin,  or  Shirley — is  less 
than  man,  is  not  ideal,  not  strong,  not  nobly  good,  but  petty,  and  effeminate, 
and  mean.  And  not  for  her,  nor  by  her,  nor  by  man,  do  I  assent  to  the  ex- 
purgation of  the  great  books.  Literature  cannot  spring  to  a  higher  level  than 
theirs.     Alas !  it  has  sprung  to  a  lower. 

The  level  of  the  great  books  is  the  Infinite,  the  Absolute.  To  contain  all, 
by  containing  the  premise,  the  truth,  the  idea  and  feeling  of  all,  to  tally  the 
universe  by  profusion,  variety,  reality,  mystery,  enclosure,  power,  terror, 
beauty,  service ;  to  be  great  to  the  utmost  conceivability  of  greatness — what 
higher  level  than  this  can  literature  spring  to?  Up  on  the  highest  summit 
stand  such  works,  never  to  be  surpassed,  never  to  be  supplanted.  Their  in- 
decency is  not  that  of  the  vulgar ;  their  vulgarity  is  not  that  of  the  low.  Their 
evil,  if  it  be  evil,  is  not  there  for  nothing — it  serves;  at  the  base  of  it  is  Love. 
Every  poet  of  the  highest  quality  is,  in  the  masterly  coinage  of  the  author  of 
Leaven  of  Grass,  a  kosmos.  His  work,  like  himself,  is  a  second  world,  full 
of  contrarieties,  strangely  harmonized,  and  moral  indeed,  but  only  as  the 
world  is  moral.  Shakespeare  is  all  good,  Rabelais  is  all  good,  Montaigne  is 
all  good,  not  because  all  the  thoughts,  the  words,  the  manifestations  are  so, 
but  because  at  the  core,  und  permeating  all,  is  an  ethic  intention — a  love 
which,  through  mysterious,  indirect,  subtle,  seemingly  absurd,  often  terrible 
and  repulsive,  means,  seeks  to  uplift,  and  never  to  degrade.  It  is  the  spirit  in 
which  authorship  is  pursued,  as  Augustus  Schlegel  has  said,  that  makes  it 
either  an  infamy  or  a  virtue ;  and  the  spirit  of  the  great  authors,  no  matter 
what  their  letter,  is  one  with  that  which  pervades  the  Creation.  In  mighty 
love,  with  implements  of  pain  and  pleasure,  of  good  and  evil.  Nature  de- 
velops man;  genius  also,  in  mighty  love,  with  implements  of  pain  and 
pleasure,  of  good  and  evil,  develops  man ;  no  matter  what  the  means,  that  is 
the  end. 

Tell  me  not,  then,  of  the  indecent  passages  of  the  great  poets !  The  world, 
which  is  the  poem  of  God,  is  full  of  indecent  passages !  "  Shall  there  be  evil 
•'  in  a  city  and  the  Lord  hath  not  done  it  ?"  shouts  Amos.    "  I  form  the  light. 


Ii6  Appendix  to  Part  I, 

"  and  create  darkness ;  I  make  peace,  and  create  evil ;  I,  the  Lord,  do  all  these 
"things,"  thunders  Isaiah.  "  This,"  says  Coleridge,  "  is  the  deep  abyss  of  the 
"  mystery  of  God."  Ay,  and  the  profound  of  the  mystery  of  genius  also! 
Evil  is  part  of  the  economy  of  genius,  as  it  is  part  of  the  economy  of  Deity. 
Gentle  reviewers  endeavor  to  find  excuses  for  the  freedoms  of  geniuses.  "  It 
is  to  prove  that  they  were  above  conventionalities."  "  It  is  referable  to  the 
age."  "  The  age  permitted  a  degree  of  coarseness,"  etc.  "  Shakespeare's 
indecencies  are  the  result  of  his  age."  Oh,  Ossa  on  Pelion,  mount  piled 
on  mount,  of  error  and  folly !  What  has  genius,  spirit  of  the  absolute  and 
the  eternal,  to  do  with  the  definitions  of  position,  or  conventionalities,  or 
tli£  age  ?  Genius  puts  indecencies  into  its  works,  because  God  puts  them 
into  His  world.  Whatever  the  special  reason  in  each  case,  this  is  the 
general  reason  in  all  cases.  They  are  here,  because  they  are  there.  That  is 
the  eternal  why. — No ;  Alphonso  of  Castile  thought  that,  if  he  had  been  con- 
sulted at  the  Creation,  he  coukl  have  given  a  few  hints  to  the  Almighty.  Not 
I.     I  play  Alphonso  neither  to  genius  nor  to  God. 

What  is  this  poem,  for  the  giving  of  which  to  America  and  the  world,  and 
for  that  alone,  its  author  has  been  dismissed  with  ignominy  from  a  Government 
office  ?  It  is  a  poem  which  Schiller  might  have  hailed  as  the  noblest  specimen 
of  naive  literature,  worthy  of  a  place  beside  Homer.  It  is,  in  the  first  place, 
a  work  purely  and  entirely  American,  autochthonic,  sprung  from  our  own  soil ; 
no  savor  of  Europe  nor  of  the  past,  nor  of  any  other  literature  in  it ;  a  vast 
carol  of  our  own  land,  and  of  its  Present  and  Future  ;  the  strong  and  haughty 
psalm  of  the  Republic.  There  is  not  one  other  book,  I  care  not  whose,  of 
which  this  can  be  said.  I  weigh  my  words  and  have  considered  well.  Every 
other  book  by  an  American  author  implies,  both  in  form  and  substance,  I  can- 
not even  say  the  European,  but  the  Brifish  mind.  The  shadow  of  Temple  Bar 
and  Arthur's  Seat  lies  dark  on  all  our  letters.  Intellectually,  we  are  still  a  de- 
pendency of  Great  Britain,  and  one  word — colonial — comprehends  and  stamps 
our  literature.  In  no  literary  form,  except  our  newspapers,  has  there  been 
anything  distinctively  American.  I  note  our  best  books — the  works  of  Jef- 
ferson, the  romances  of  Brockden  Brown,  the  speeches  of  Webster,  Everett's 
rhetoric,  the  divinity  cf  Channing,  some  of  Cooper's  novels,  the  writings  of 
Theodore  Parker,  the  poetry  of  Bryant,  the  masterly  law  arguments  of  Ly- 
sander  Spooner,  the  miscellanies  of  Margaret  Fuller,  the  histories  of  HiU 
dreth,  Bancroft  and  Motley,  Ticknor's  "tllistory  of  Spanish  Literature," 
Judd's  "  Margaret,"  the  political  treatises  of  Calhoun,  the  rich,  benignant 
poems  of  Longfellow,  the  ballads  of  Whittier,  the  delicate  songs  of  Philip 
Pendleton  Cooke,  the  weird  poetry  of  Edgar  Poe,  the  wizard  tales  uf  Haw- 
thorne, Irving's  "  Knickerbocker,"  Delia  Bacon's  splendid  sibyllic  book  on 
Shakespeare,  the  poliiical  economy  uf  Carey,  the  prison  letters  and  immortal 
speech  of  John  Brown,  the  lofty  patrician  eloquence  of  Wendell  Phillips,  and 


The  Good  Gray  P^^/.  (1865-6).  117 

those  diamonds  of  the  first  water,  the  great  clear  essays  and  greater  poems  of 
Emerson.  This  literature  has  often  commanding  merits,  and  much  of  it  is 
very  precious  to  me  ;  but  in  respect  to  its  national  character,  all  that  can  be  said 
is  that  it  is  tinged,  more  or  less  deeply,  with  America;  and  the  foreign  model, 
the  foreign  standards,  the  foreign  ideas,  dominate  over  it  all. 

At  most,  our  best  books  were  but  struggling  beams;  behold  in  Leave-  of 
Grass  the  immense  and  absolute  sunrise  !     It  is  all  our  own  !     The  nation  is 
in  it !     In  form  a  series  of  chants,  in  substance  it  is  an  epic  of  America.     It  is 
distinctively  and  utterly  American.     Without  model,  without  imitation,  with- 
out reminiscence,  it  is  evolved  entirely  from  our  own  polity  and  popular  life. 
Look  at  what  it  celebrates  and  contains !  hardly  to  be  enumerated   without 
sometimes  using  the  powerful,  wondrous  phrases  of  its  author,  so  indissolu- 
ble are  they  with  the  things  described.     The  essences,  the  events,  the  objects 
of  America;  the  myriad  varied  landscapes;  the  teeming  and  giant  cities;  the 
generous  and  turbulent  populations;  the  prairie  solitudes,  the  vast  pastoral 
plateaus;  the  Mississippi;  the  land  dense  with  villages  and  farms;  the  habits, 
manners,  customs;  the  enormous  diversity  of  temperatures;  the  immense  geog- 
raphy ;  the  red  aborigines  jiassing  away,  "  charging  the  water  and  the  land 
with  names;"  the  early  settlements;  the  sudden  uprising  and  defiance  of  the 
Revolution ;  the  august  figure  of  Washington ;  the  formation  and  sacredness 
of  the  Constitution ;  the  pouring  in  of  the  emigrants;  the  million-masted  har- 
bors; the  general  opulence  and  comfort;  the  fisheries,  and  whaling,  and  gold- 
digging,  and  manufactures,  and  agriculture;  the  dazzling  movement  of  new 
States,  rushing  to  be  great ;  Nevada  rising,  Dakota  rising,  Colorado  rising; 
the  tumultuous  civilization  around  and  beyond  the  Rocky  Mountains,  thunder- 
ing and  spreading;  the  Union  impregnable;  feudalism  in  all  its  forms  forever 
tracked  and  assaulted ;  liberty  deathless  on  these  shores ;  the  noble  and  free 
character  of  the   people ;  the  equality  of  male   and   female ;  the   ardor,  the 
fierceness,  the  friendship,  the  dignity,  the  enterprise,  the  affection,  the  cour- 
age, the  love  of  music,  the  passion  for  personal  freedom ;  the  mercy  and  jus- 
tice and  compassion  of  the  people;  the  popular  faults  and  vices  and  crimes; 
the  deference  of  the  President  to  the  private  citizen ;  the  image  of  Christ  for- 
ever deepening  in  the  public  mind  as  the  brother  of  despised   and  rejected 
persons;  the  promise  and  wild  song  of  the  future;  the  vision  of  the  Federal 
Mother,  seated  with  more  than  antiiiue  majesty  in  the  midst  of  her  many  chil- 
dren;  the  pouring  glories  of  the  hereafter;  the  vistas  of  splendor,  incessant 

and  branching;  the  tremendous  elements,  breeds,  adjustments  of  America 

with  all  these,  with  more,  with  everything  transcendent,  amazing,  and  new, 
undimmed  by  the  pale  cast  of  thought,  and  with  the  very  color  and  brawn  of 
actual  life,  the  whole  gigantic  epic  of  our  continental  being  unwinds  in  all  its 
magnificent  reality  in  these  .lages.  Vo  understand  Greece,  study  the  "  Iliad  " 
and  "  Odyssey ;"  study  Leaves  of  Grass  to  understand  America.  Her  democ- 
racy is  there.     Would  you  have  a  text-book  of  democracy  ?     The  writings  of 


Ii8  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

Jefferson  are  good;  De  Tocqueville  is  better;  but  the  great  poet  always  con- 
tains iiislorian  and  philosopher — and  to  know  the  comprehending  spirit  of  this 
country,  you  shall  question  these  insulted  pages. 

Yet  this  vast  and  patriotic  celebration  and  presentation  of  all  that  is  our 
own,  is  but  a  part  of  this  tremendous  volume.  Here  in  addition  is  thrown  in 
poetic  form,  a  philosophy  of  life,  rich,  subtle,  composite,  ample,  adequate  to 
these  great  shores.  Here  are  presented  superb  types  of  models  of  manly  and 
womanly  character  for  the  future  of  this  country,  athletic,  large,  naive,  free, 
dauntless,  haughty,  loving,  nobly  carnal,  nobly  spiritual,  equal  in  body  and 
soul,  acceptive  and  tolerant  as  Nature,  generous,  cosmopolitan,  above  all,  re- 
ligious. Here  are  erected  standards,  drawn  from  the  circumstances  of  our 
case,  by  which  not  merely  our  literature,  but  all  our  performance,  our  politics, 
art,  behavior,  love,  conversation,  dress,  society,  everything  belonging  to  our 
lives  and  their  conduct,  will  be  shaped  and  recreated.  A  power.'"i:l  aiTiatus 
from  the  Infinite  has  given  this  book  lifp  A  vuicc  wnich  is  the  maniiest  of 
hun.u..  oices  !:v;unas  through  it  all.  In  it  is  the  strung  spirit  which  will 
surely  ni  ..Id  our  Tuture  Mark  my  words:  its  sentences  will  yet  clinch  the 
arguments  of  statesmen  ;  its  precepts  will  be  the  laws  of  the  people  !  From 
the  beams  of  this  seminal  sun  will  be  generated,  with  tropical  luxuriance,  the 
myriad  new  forms  of  thought  and  life  in  America.  And  in  view  of  the  na- 
tional character  and  national  purpose  of  this  work — in  view  of  its  vigorous 
re-enforcement  and  service  to  all  that  wc  hold  most  precious — I  make  the 
claim  here,  that  so  far  from  defaming  and  persecuting  its  author,  ihe  attitude 
of  an  American  statesman  or  public  officer  towards  him  should  be  to  the  high- 
est degree  friendly  and  sustaining. 

Beyond  his  country,  too,  this  poet  serves  the  world.  He  refutes  by  his  ex- 
ample the  saying  of  Goethe,  one  of  those  which  stain  that  noble  fame  with 
baseness,  that  a  great  poet  cannot  be  patriotic ;  and  he  dilates  to  a  universal 
use  which  redoubles  the  splendors  of  his  volume,  and  makes  it  dear  to  all 
that  is  human.  I  am  not  its  authorized  interpreter,  and  can  only  state,  at  the 
ris-k  of  imperfect  expression  and  perhaps  error,  what  its  meanings  and  pur- 
pose seem  to  me.  But  I  see  that,  in  his  general  intention,  the  author  has 
aimed  to  express  that  most  common  but  wondrous  thing — that  strange  assem- 
blage of  soul,  body,  intellect — beautiful,  mystical,  terrible,  limited,  boundleiis, 
ill-assorted,  contmdictory,  yet  singularly  harmonized — a  Human  Being,  a  sin- 
gle, separate  identity — a  Man — himself;  but  himself  typically,  and  in  his  uni- 
versal being.  This  he  has  done  with  perfect  candor,  including  the  bodily 
attributes  and  organs  as  necessary  component  parts  of  the  creation.  Every 
thinking  person  should  see  the  value  and  use  of  such  a  presentation  of  human 
nature  as  this.  I  also  see— and  it  is  from  these  parts  of  the  book  that  much 
of  the  misunderstanding  and  offence  arises — that  this  poet  seeks  in  subtle  ways 
to  rescue  from  the  keeping  of  blackguards  and  debauchees,  to  which  it  has 
been  abandoned,  and  to  redeem  to  noble  thought  and  use,  the  great  element 


The  Good  Gray  Poet.{\%()^-€).  119 

of  amativeness  or  sexuality,  with  all  its  acts  and  organs.  Sometimes  by  direct 
assertion,  sometimes  by  implication,  he  rejects  the  prevailing  admission  that 
this  element  is  vile ;  declares  its  natural  or  normal  manifestation  to  be  sacred 
and  unworthy  shame;  awards  it  an  equal  but  not  superior  sanctity  with  the 
other  elements  that  compose  man;  and  illustrates  his  doctrine  and  sets  his  ex- 
ample by  applying  this  element,  with  all  that  pertains  to  it,  to  use  as  part  of 
the  imagery  of  poetry.  Then,  besides,  diffused  like  an  atmosphere  through- 
out the  poem,  tincturing  all  its  quality,  and  giving  it  that  sacerdotal  and  pro- 
phetic character  which  makes  it  a  sort  of  American  Bible,  is  the  pronounced 
and  ever-recurring  assertion  of  the  divinity  of  all  things.  In  a  spirit  like  that 
of  the  Egyptian  priesthood,  who  wore  the  dung-beetle  in  gold  on  their  crests, 
perhaps  as  a  symbol  of  the  sacredness  of  even  the  lowest  forms  of  life,  the  poet 
celebrates  all  the  Creation  as  noble  and  holy — the  meanest  and  lowest  parts 
of  it,  as  well  as  the  most  lofty ;  all  equally  projections  of  the  Infinite ;  all 
emanations  of  the  creative  life  of  God.  Perpetual  hymns  break  from  him  in 
pruise  of  the  divineness  of  the  universe ;  he  sees  a  halo  around  every  shape, 
however  low ;  and  life  in  all  its  forms  inspires  a  rapture  of  worship. 

How  some  persons  can  think  a  book  of  this  sort  bad,  is  clearer  to  me  than 
it  used  to  be.  Swedenborg  says  that  to  the  devils,  perfumes  are  stinks.  I 
happen  to  know  that  some  of  the  vilest  abuse  Leaves  of  Grass  has  received, 
has  come  from  men  of  the  lowest  possiLle  moral  life.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  un- 
derstand how  some  persons  of  culture  and  judgment  can  Liil  to  perceive  its 
literary  greatness.  Making  fair  allowance  for  faults,  which  no  great  work, 
from  "  Hamlet "  to  the  world  itself,  is  perhaps  without,  the  book,  in  form  as 
in  substance,  seems  to  me  a  masterpiece.  Never  in  literature  has  there  been 
more  absolute  conceptive  or  presentative  power.  The  forms  and  shows  of 
things  arc  bodied  forth  so  that  one  may  say  they  become  visible,  and  are  alive. 
Here,  in  its  grandest,  freest  use,  is  the  English  language,  from  its  lowest 
compass  to  the  top  of  the  key;  from  the  powerful,  rank  idiom  of  the  streets 
and  fields  to  the  last  subtlety  of  academic  speech — ample,  various,  telling, 
luxuriant,  pictorial,  final,  conquering;  absorbing  from  other  languages  to  its 
own  purposes  their  choicest  terms;  its  rich  and  daring  composite  defying 
grammar;  its  most  incontestable  and  splendid  triumphs  achieved,  as  Jefferson 
notes  of  the  superb  Latin  of  Tacitus,  in  haughty  scorn  of  the  rules  of  gram- 
marians. Another  singular  excellence  is  the  metre — entirely  novel,  free,  flex- 
ible, melodious,  corresponsive  to  the  thought ;  its  noble  proportions  and  ca- 
dences reminding  of  winds  and  waves,  and  the  vast  elemental  sounds  and 
motions  of  Nature,  and  having  an  equal  variety  and  liberty.  I  have  heard 
this  brought  into  disparaging  comparison  with  the  metres  of  Tennyson ;  the 
poetry  also  disparaged  in  the  same  connection.  I  hardly  know  what  to  think 
of  people  who  can  talk  in  this  way.  To  say  nothing  of  the  preference,  the 
mere  par.^llel  is  only  less  ludicrous  and  arbitrary  than  would  be  one  between 
Moore  and  Isaiah.  Tennyson  is  an  exquisite  and  sumptuous  poet  of  the  third, 


I20  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

perhaps  the  fourth  order,  as  certainly  below  Milton  and  Virgil  as  Milton 
and  Virgil  arc  certainly  below  .Eschylus  and  Ilnmcr.  His  full-fluted  ver- 
bal music,  which  is  one  of  his  chief  merits,  is  of  an  extraordinary  beauty. 
But  in  this  respect  the  comparison  between  him  and  Walt  Whitman  is  that 
between  melody  and  harmony — between  a  song  by  Franz  Abt  or  Schubert 
and  a  symphony  by  Ikcthoven.  Speaking  generally,  and  not  with  exact 
justice  to  either,  the  words  of  Tennyson,  irresi)ective  of  their  sense,  make 
music  to  the  ear,  while  the  sense  of  Walt  Wiiitman's  words  makes  a  loftier 
music  in  the  mind.  For  a  music,  perfect  and  vast,  subtle  and  more  than  auric- 
ular— woven  not  alone  from  the  verbal  sounds  and  rhythmic  cadences,  but 
educed  by  the  thought  and  feeling  of  the  verse  from  the  reader's  soul  by  the 
power  of  a  spell  few  hold — I  know  of  nothing  superior  to  "  By  the  Bivouac's 
fitful  flame,"  the  "  Ashes  of  Soldiers,"  the  "  Spirit  whose  Work  is  done,"  the 
prelude  to  "  Drum  Taps,"  that  most  mournful  and  noble  of  all  love  songs, 
'Outof  the  Rolling  Ocean, the  Crowd,"  or  "Outofthe  Cradle  endlessly  Rock- 
ing," "  Elemental  Drifts,"  the  entire  section  entitled  "  Song  of  Myself," 
the  hymn  commencing  "  Splendor  of  Falling  Day,"  or  the  great  salute 
to  the  French  Revolution  of  '93,  entitled  "  France."  If  these  are  not  ex- 
amples of  great  structural  harmony  as  well  as  of  the  highest  poetry,  there  are 
none  in  literature.  And  if  all  these  were  wanting,  there  is  a  poem  in  the  vol- 
ume which,  if  the  author  had  never  written  another  line,  would  be  sufilcient 
to  place  him  among  the  chief  poets  of  the  world.  I  do  not  refer  to  "  Chant- 
ing the  Square  Deific,"  though  that  also  would  be  sufficient,  in  its  incompara- 
ble breadth  and  grandeur  of  conception  and  execution,  to  establish  the  high- 
est poetic  reputation,  but  to  the  strain  commemorating  the  death  of  the  be- 
loved President,  commencing  "  When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloomed," 
a  poem  whose  rich  and  sacred  beauty  and  rapture  of  tender  religious  passion, 
spreading  aloft  into  the  sublime,  leave  it  unique  and  solitary  in  literature,  and 
will  make  it  the  chosen  and  immortal  hymn  of  Death  forever.  Emperors 
might  well  elect  to  die,  could  their  memories  be  surrounded  with  such  a  re- 
quiem, which,  next  to  the  grief  and  love  of  the  people,  is  the  grandest  and 
the  only  grand  funeral  music  poured  around  Lincoln's  bier. 

In  the  face  of  works  like  these,  testimony  of  the  presence  on  earth  of  a 
mighty  soul,  I  am  thunderstruck  at  the  low  tone  of  the  current  criticism. 
Even  from  eminent  persons,  who  ought  to  know  how  to  measure  literature, 
and  who  are  friendly  to  this  author,  I  hear,  mingled  with  inadequate  praises, 
the  selfsame  censures — the  very  epithets  even  which  Voltaire  not  more 
ridiculously  passed  on  Shakespeare.  Take  care,  gentlemen !  What  you,  like 
Voltaire,  take  for  rudeness,  chaos,  barbarism,  lack  of  form,  may  be  the  sacred 
and  magnificent  wildness  of  a  virgin  world  of  poetry,  ail  unlike  these  fine 
and  ordered  Tennysonian  rose-gardens  which  are  your  ideal,  but  excelling 
these  as  the  globe  excels  the  parterre.  I,  at  any  rate,  am  not  deceived.  I 
see  how  swiftly  the  smart,  bright  conventional  standards  of  modern  criticism 


The  Good  Gray  Poet.  (1865-6).  121 

would  assign  Isaiah  or  Ezekiel  to  the  limbo  of  abortions.     I  see  of  how  lim- 
ited worth  are  the  wit  and  scholarship  of  these  "  Saturday  Reviews "  and 
"  London  Examiners,"  with  their  doppelgangers  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
by  the  treatment  some  poetic  masterpiece  of  China  or  Hindustan  receives 
when  it  falls  into  their  hands  for  judgment.     Anything  not  cast  in  modern 
conventional   forms,   any   novel   or  amazing  beauty,  strikes  them  as  comic. 
Read  Mr.  Buckley's  notes,  even  at  this  late  day,  on  a  poet  so  incredihly  great 
as  .Eschylus.    Read  an  yl'".schylus  illustrated  by  reference  to  Nicholas  Nickle- 
by,  Mrs.  bombazine,  and  Mantalini,  and  censured  in  contemptuous,  jocular  or 
flippant  annotations — this,  too,  by  an  Oxford  scholar  of  rank  antl  merit.     No 
wonder  Leaves  of  Grass  goes  underrated  or  unperccived.     Modern  criticism 
is  Voltaire  estimating  the  Apocalypse  as  "dirt,"  and  roaring  with  laughter 
over  the  leaves  of  Ezekiel.     Wliy  ?     Because  this  poetry  has   not  the  court 
tread,  the  perfume,  the  royal  purple  of  Racine — only  its  own  wild  and  form- 
less incomparable  sublimity.     Voltaire  was  an  immense  and  noble  j^crson; 
only  it  was   not  part  of  his  greatness  to  be  able  to  see  tiiat  other  greatness 
which  transcends  common  sense  as  the  Inllnite  transcends  the  Finite.     Tliese 
children  of    Voltaire,  also,  who  make  the  clioirs  of  modern  criticism,  have 
great  merits.     But  to  justly  estimate  poetry  of  tiie  fu-.t  order  is  not  one  of 
them.     "Shakespeare's  'Tempest'  or  'Midsummer  Night's  Dream,' or  any 
"  such  damned  nonsense  as  tha*.,"  said  one  of  this  school  to  me  a  month  ago. 
"  Look  at  that  perpendicular  grocery  sign-board,  the  letters  all  fantastic  and 
reading  from  top  to  bottom,  a  mere  odility:  that  is  Leaves  of  Grass,'''  said  an- 
other, a  person  of  eminence.     No,  gentlemen  !  you  and  I  differ.     I  see,  very 
clearly,  the  nature  of  a  work  like  this,  the  warmest  praise  of  which,  not  to 
mention  your  blame,  has  been  meagre  and  insufhcient  to  the  last  degree,  and 
vvhicli  centuries  must  ponder  before  they  can  sufliciently  honor.     Vou  have 
had  your  say;    let  me  have  at  least  the  beginning  of  mine;  Nothing  that 
America  had  before  in  literature  rose  above   construction;  this  is  a  creation. 
Idle,  and  worse  than  idle,  is  any  attempt  to  place  this  author  eiliier  among  or 
below  the  poets  of  the  day.     They  are  but  singers;    he  is  a  bard.     In  him 
you  have  one  of  that  mighty  brotherhood  who,  more  than  statesmen,  mould 
the  future;  who,  as  Fletcher  of  Saltoun  said,  \vhen  they  make  the  songs  of  a 
nation,  it  matters  not  who  makes  the  law-s.     I  class  him  boldly,  and  the  future 
will  confirm  my  judgment,  among  the  great  creative  minds  of  the  world.    By 
a  (juality  almost  incommunicable,  which  makes  its  i)os.sessor,  no  matter  what 
his  diversity  or  imperfections,  equal  with  the  Supremes  of  art,  and  !)y  the  very 
structure  of  his  mind,  he  belongs  there.     His  place  is  beside  Shakespeare, 
/Kschylus,  Cervantes,  Dante,  Homer,  Isaiah — tlie  bards  of  the  last  ascent,  the 
hrotliers  of  the  radiant  sunimit.     And  if  any  man  think  this  estimate  extrav- 
agant, I  leave  him,  as  Lord  Bacon  says,  to  the  gravity  of  that  judgment,  and 
pass  on.    Enough  for  me  to  pronounce  this  book  grandly  good  and  supremely 
great.     Clamor,  un  the  score  of  its  morality,  is  nothing  but  a  form  of  turpi- 

II 


122  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

tude ;  denial  of  its  greatness  is  nothing  but  an  insanity ;  and  the  roar  of 
Sodom  and  the  laughter  of  Hedlani  shall  not,  by  a  liair's  breadth,  swerve  my 
verdict. 

As  for  those  passages  wliich  have  been  so  strangely  interpreted,  I  have  to 
say  tiiat  nutliing  but  tiie  hurnl)Ie  inanity  of  prudery,  to  whicli  civilization  has 
become  subject,  and  whi'^h  affects  even  many  good  persons,  could  cloud  and 
distort  their  palpable  innocence  and  nobleness.  What  chance  has  an  author 
to  a  reasonable  interpretation  of  such  utterances  in  an  age  when  squeamisli- 
ness,  the  Siamese  twin-brother  of  indelicacy,  is  throned  as  the  censor  of  all 
life?  Look  at  the  nearest,  the  commonest,  and  homeliest  evidences  of  the 
abysm  into  which  we  have  fallen.  Here  in  my  knowledge  is  an  estimable 
family  which,  when  the  baby  playing  oji  the  floor  kicked  up  its  skirts,  I  have 
repeatedly  seen  rush  en  masse  to  pull  down  the  immodest  petticoat.  Here  is 
a  lady  whose  shame  of  her  l)ody  is  such  that  she  will  not  disrobe  in  the  pres- 
ence of  one  of  her  own  sex,  and  thinks  it  horrible  to  sleep  at  night  without 
being  swaddled  in  half  her  garments.  Everywhere  you  see  women  perpetually 
glancing  to  be  sure  their  skirts  are  quite  down  ;  twisting  their  heads  over  their 
shoulders,  like  some  of  the  damned  in  Dante,  to  get  a  rear  view ;  drawing  in 
their  feet  if  so  much  as  a  toe  happens  to  protrude  beyond  the  hem  of  the 
gown,  and  in  various  ways  betraying  a  morbid  consciousness  which  is  more 
offensive  than  positive  immodesty.  When  I  went  to  the  hospital,  I  saw  one 
of  those  pretty  and  good  girls,  who  in  muslin  and  ribbons  ornament  the  wards, 
and  are  called  "  nurses,"  pick  up  her  skirts  and  skurry  away,  flushing  hectic, 
with  averted  face,  because  as  she  passed  a  cot  the  poor  fellow  who  lay  there 
happened,  in  his  uneasy  turnings,  to  thrust  part  of  a  manly  leg  from  beneath 
the  coverlet.  I  once  heard  Emerson  severely  censured  in  a  private  company, 
five  or  six  persons  present,  and  I  the  only  dissenting  voice,  because  in  one  of 
his  essays  he  had  used  the  word  "  spermatic."  >Vhen  Tennyson  published 
the  "  Idyls  of  the  King,"  some  of  the  journals  in  both  America  and  England, 
and  several  persons  in  my  own  hearing,  censured  the  weird  and  magiiiliceiit 
"Vivien,"  one  of  his  fiiest  poems,  as  "immoral"  and  "vulgar."  When 
Charles  Sumner,  in  the  debate  on  Louisiana,  characterized  the  new-formed 
State  as  "  a  seven  months'  child,  begotten  by  the  bayonet,  in  criminal  conjunc- 
tion w  ith  the  spirit  of  caste  " — a  stroke  of  absolute  genius — he  was  censured 
by  the  public  prints,  and  reminded  that  there  were  ladies  in  the  gallery  ! 
Lately  the  "  London  Obse  -ver,"  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  the  British  jour- 
nals, in  a  long  and  labored  editorial  on  the  bathing  at  Margate,  denounced 
the  British  wives  and  matrons  in  the  severest  terms  for  sitting  on  the  beach 
when  men  were  bathing  in  "slight  bathing-dresses"  (it  was  not  even  pre- 
tended that  the  men  were  nade) — and  even  went  the  length  of  demanding 
of  the  civil  authorities  that  they  should  invoke  the  interference  of  Parlia- 
ment to  stop  this  scandal !  These  are  fair  minor  specimens  of  the  prutlery, 
worse  than  vice,  but  also  the  concomitant  of  the  most  shocking  vice,  which 


The  Good  Gray  Poet.  (1865-6).  123 

prevails  everywhere.  Its  travesty  is  the  dressing  in  pantalettes  the  "  limbs  " 
of  the  piano;  its  insolent  tragi-comedy  is  the  expulsion  of  Shakespeare  from 
office  because  he  writes  "  indecent  passages  "  ;  its  tragedy  is  the  myriad  results 
of  wrong,  and  crime,  and  ruin,  carried  into  all  the  details  of  every  relation 
of  life. 

A  civilization  in  which  such  things  as  I  have  mentioned  can  be  thought  or 
done  is  guilty  to  the  core.     It  is  not  purity,  it  is  impurity,  which  calls  clothes 
more  decent  than  the  naked  body — thus  inar.ely  conferring  upon  the  work  of 
the  taUor  or  milliner  a  modesty  denied  to  the  work  of  God.     It  is  not  inno- 
cent but  guilty  thought  which  attaches  sham,'^,  secrecy,  baseness,  and  horror 
to  great  and  august  parts  and  functions  of  humanity.     The  tacit  admission 
everywhere  prevalent  that  portions  of  the  human   physiology  are  base ;  that 
the  amative  feelings  and  acts  of  the  sexes,  even  when  hallowed  by  marriage, 
are  connected  with  a  low  sensuality;  and  that  these,  with  such  subjects  or  occur- 
rences as  the  conception  and  birth  of   children,  are  to  be  absconded  from, 
blushed  at,  concealed,  ignored,  withheld  from  education,  and  in  every  way 
treated  as  if  they  belonged  to  the  category  of  sins  against  Nature,  is  not  only 
in  itself  a  contemptible  insanity,  but  a  main  source  of   unspeakable  personal 
and  social  evil.     From  the  morbid  state  of  mind  which  such  a  theory  and 
practice  must  induce  are  spawned  a  thousand   guilty  actions  of  every  de- 
scription and   degree.     There  is  no  occurrence  in  the  vast  and  diversified 
rani,^e  of  sexual  evil,  from  the  first  lewd  thought  in  the  mind  of  the  budding 
child,  the  very  suspicion  of  which  makes  the  parent  tremble,  down  to  the 
last  ghastly  and  bloody  spasm  of  lust  which  rends  its  hapless  victim  in  some 
suburban  woodland,  that  is  not  fed  mainly  from  this  mystery  and  mother  of 
abominations,  to  whose    care  civilization   has  remitted   the    entire    subject. 
The  poet  who,  in  the  spirit  of  that  divine  utility  which  marked  the  first 
great  bards  and  will  mark  the  last,  seeks  to  make  literature  remediate  to  an 
estate  like  this,  works  in  the  best   interests  of  his  country  and  his  fellow- 
beings,  and  deserves  their  gratitude.     This  is  what  Walt  Whitman  has  done. 
Directly  and  indirectly,  in  forms  as  various  as  the  minds  he  seeks  to  influence  ; 
in  frank  opposition  to  the  great  sexual  falsehood  by  which  we  are  ruled  and 
ruined,  he  has  thrown  into  civilization  a  conception  intended  to  be  slowly  and 
insensibly  absorbed,  and  to  ultimately  appear  in  results  of  good — the  conccp- 
tiiin  of  the  individual  as  a  divine  democracy  of  essences,  powers,  attributes, 
functions,  organs — all  eriual,  all  sacred,  all  consecrate  to  noble  use;  the  sexual 
part  the  same  as  the  rest,  no  more  a  subject  for  mystery,  or  shame,  or  secrecy, 
than  the  intellectual,  or  the  manual,  or  the  alimentary,  or  the  locomotive  part 
— divinely  commonplace  as  head,  or  hand,  or  stomach,  or  foot;  and,  though 
sacred,  to  be  regarded  as  so  ordinary  that  it  shall  be  employed  the  same  as 
any  other  part,  for  the  purposes  oi  literature — an  idea  which  he  exemplifies  in 
his  poetry  by  a  metaphorical  use  which  it  is  a  deep  disgrace  to  any  intellect  to 
misunderstand.     Tliis  is  his  lesson.     This  is  one  of  the  central  ideas  which 


124  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

rule  the  myriad  teeming  play  of  his  volume,  and  interpret  it  as  a  law  of  Nature 
interprets  the  complex  play  of  facts  which  proceeds  liom  it.  Tliis,  then,  is  not 
licLMi^e,  but  thouglit.  It  may  be  erroneous,  it  may  be  chimerical,  it  may  be 
ineffectual ;  but  it  is  thought,  serious  and  solemn  thought,  on  a  most  ditiicult 
and  deeply  immersed  (jue.stion — thought  emanating  from  the  deep  source  of 
a  great  love  and  care  for  m.en,  and  seeking  nothing  but  a  pure  human  welfare. 
When,  therefore,  any  persons  undertake  to  outrage  and  injure  its  author  for 
having  given  it  to  the  world,  it  is  not  merely  as  the  pigmy  incarnations  of  the 
depraved  modesty,  the  surface  morality,  the  filthy  ?.ad  libidinous  decency  of 
the  age,  but  it  is  as  the  persecutors  of  thought  that  they  stand  before  us.  It  is  no 
excuse  for  them  to  say,  that  such  treatment  of  Walt  Whitman  is  justifiable, 
because  his  book  appears  to  them  bad.  Waiving  every  other  consideration,  I 
have  to  inform  them  that  on  this  subject  they  should  not  permit  themselves 
the  immodesty  of  a  judgment.  It  is  not  for  such  as  they  to  attempt  to  prison 
in  the  poor  cell  of  their  opinion  the  vast  journey  and  illumination  of  the  human 
mind.  No  matter  what  the  book  seems  to  them,  they  should  remember  that 
an  author  deserves  to  be  tried  by  his  peers,  and  that  a  book  may  ea>ily  seem 
to  some  persons  quite  another  thing  from  what  it  really  is  to  others. 

Here  is  Ral)elais,  a  writer  who  wears  all  the  crowns;  but  even  Mr.  Harlan 
would  consider  Walt  Wliitman  white  as  purity  beside  him.  "  Filth,"  "  zany- 
ism,"  "grossness,"  "profligacy,"  "licentiousness,"  "sensuality,"  "beastli- 
ness"— these  are  samples  of  the  epithets  which  have  fallen,  like  a  rain  of  ex- 
crement, on  Rabelais  for  three  hundred  years.  And  yet  it  is  of  him  that  the 
holy-her.ited  Coleridge — an  authority  of  the  first  order  on  all  purely  literaiy 
or  ethical  (piestions — it  is  of  him  that  Coleridge  says,  and  says  justly:  "  I 
"  could  write  a  treatise  in  praise  of  the  moral  elevation  of  Rabelais'  work 
"  which  would  make  the  Church  stare,  and  the  Conventicle  groan,  and  yet 
"  would  be  the  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth."  The  moral  elevation  of 
Rabelais!  A  great  criticism,  a  needed  word.  It  is  just.  No  matter  for 
seeming — Ral)elais  is  good  to  the  very  core.  Rabelais'  book,  viewed  with 
reference  to  ensemble,  viewed  in  relation,  viewed  in  its  own  proper  quality 
by  other  than  cockney  standards,  is  righteous  to  the  uttermost  extreme.  So 
is  the  work  of  Walt  Whitman,  far  other  in  character,  and  far  less  obnoxious 
to  criticism  than  that  of  Rabelais,  but  which  demands  at  least  as  liberal  a 
judgment,  and  which  it  is  not  for  any  deputy,  however  high  in  office,  to  assign 
to  shame. 

I  know  not  what  further  vicissitude  of  insult  and  outrage  is  in  store  for  this 
great  man.  It  may  be  that  the  devotees  of  a  castrated  literature,  the  earth- 
worms that  call  themselves  authors,  the  confectioners  that  pass  for  poets,  the 
flies  that  are  recognized  as  critics,  the  bigots,  the  dilettanti,  the  prudes  and 
the  fools,  are  more  potent  than  I  dream  to  mar  the  fortunes  of  his  earthly 
hours ;  but  above  and  beyond  them  uprises  a  more  majestic  civilization  iu  the 


The  Good  Gray  Poet.  (i865-'6).  125 

immense  and  sane  serenities  of  futurity;  and  the  man  who  has  achieved  ihat 
sublime  thing,  a  genuine  book  ;  who  has  written  to  make  his  hand  greater, 
her  citizens  better,  his  race  nobler;  who  has  striven  to  serve  men  Ijy  com- 
municating to  them  tliat  which  they  leaNt  know,  their  own  nature,  their  own 
experience;  who  has  tlirown  into  living  verse  a  philosophy  designed  to  exalt 
life  to  a  higher  level  of  sincerity,  reality,  religion  ;  wiio  has  torn  away  dis- 
guises and  illusions,  and  restored  to  commonest  things,  and  the  simplest  and 
roughest  people,  their  divine  signiticance  and  natural,  antiijue  dignity,  and 
who  has  wrap[)ed  his  country  and  all  created  things  as  with  splendors  of  sun- 
rise, in  the  beams  of  a  powerful  and  gorgeous  poetry — that  man,  wiiatever  be 
the  clouds  that  close  around  his  fame,  is  assured  illustrious ;  and  when  every 
face  lowers,  when  every  hand  is  raised  against  him,  turning  his  back  upon  his 
day  and  generation,  he  may  write  upon  his  book,  with  all  tl^e  pride  and  grief 
of  the  calumniated  /Eschylus,  the  haugiity  dedication  that  poet  graved  upon 
his  hundred  dramas:   To  Time! 

And  Time  will  remember  him.  He  holds  upon  the  future  this  supreme 
claim  of  all  high  poets — behind  the  book,  a  life  loyal  to  humanity.  Never, 
if  I  can  help  it,  shall  be  forgotten  those  immense  and  divine  labors  in  the 
hospitals  of  Washington,  among  the  wounded  of  the  war,  to  which  he  volun- 
tarily devoted  himself,  as  the  best  service  he  could  render  to  his  struggling 
country,  and  which  illustrate  that  boundless  love  which  is  at  once  the  domi- 
nant element  of  his  character,  and  the  central  source  of  his  genius.  How  can 
I  tell  the  nature  and  extent  of  that  sublime  ministhation  ?  During  those  years, 
Washington  was  a  city  in  whose  unbuilt  places  and  around  whose  borders 
were  thickly  planted  dense  white  clusters  of  barracks.  These  were  the  hos- 
pitals— neat,  orderly,  rectangular,  strange  towns,  whose  every  citizen  lay 
drained  with  sickness  or  wrung  with  pain.  There,  in  those  long  wards,  in 
rows  of  cots  on  either  side,  were  stretched,  in  all  attitudes  and  asj)ects  of 
mutilation,  of  pale  repose,  of  contorted  anguish,  of  death,  the  martyrs  of  the 
war ;  and  among  them,  with  a  soul  that  tenderly  remembered  the  little  chil- 
dren in  many  a  dwelling  mournful  for  those  fathers,  the  worn  and  an:;ious 
wives,  haggard  with  thinking  of  those  husbands,  the  girls  weeping  their  spirits 
from  their  eyes  for  those  lovers,  the  mothers  who  from  afar  yearned  to  the 
bedsides  of  those  sons,  walked  Walt  Whitman,  in  the  spirit  of  Christ,  soothing, 
healing,  consoling,  restoring,  night  and  day,  for  years;  neve»"  failing,  never 
tiring,  constant,  vigilant,  faithful;  performing,  without  fee  or  reward,  his  self- 
imposed  duty;  giving  to  the  task  all  his  time  and  means,  and  doing  every- 
thing that  it  is  possible  for  one  unaided  human  being  to  do.  Others  fail, 
others  flag;  good  souls  that  came  often  and  did  their  best,  yield  and  drop 
away;  he  remains.  Winter  and  summer,  night  and  day,  every  day  in  the 
week,  every  week  in  the  year,  all  the  time,  till  the  winter  of  '65,  when  for  a 
few  hours  daily,  during  six  months,  his  duties  to  the  Government  detain 
him ;  after  that,  all  the  time  he  can  spare,  he  visits  the  hospitals.     What  does 


126  Appendix  to  Fart  I. 

he  do  ?  See.  At  the  red  aceldama  of  Fredericksburg,  in  '62-'3,  he  is  in  a 
hospital  on  the  banks  of  the  Rappahannock ;  it  is  a  large,  brick  house,  full 
of  wounded  and  dying  ;  in  front,  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  is  a  cartdoad  of  ampu- 
tated legs,  arms,  hands,  feet,  lingers;  dead  bodies  shrouded  in  army  blankets 
are  near;  there  are  fresh  graves  in  the  yard;  he  is  at  work  in  the  house 
among  the  officers  and  men,  lying,  unclean  and  bloody,  in  their  old  clothes; 
he  is  upstairs  and  down;  he  is  poor,  he  has  nothing  to  give  this  time,  b'U  he 
writes  letters  for  the  wounded  ;  he  cheers  up  the  desponding;  he  gives  love. 
Some  of  the  men,  war-sad,  passionately  cling  to  him;  they  weep;  he  will  sit 
for  hours  witli  them  if  it  gives  them  comfort.  Here  he  is  in  Washington, 
after  Chancellorsville,  at  night,  on  the  wharf;  two  boat  loads  of  wounded 
(and  oh,  such  wounded!)  have  been  landed;  they  lie  scattered  about  on  tne 
landing,  in  the  rain,  drenched,  livid,  lying  on  the  ground,  on  old  quilts,  on 
blankets;  their  heads,  their  limbs  bound  in  bloody  rags ;  a  few  torches  light 
the  scene ;  the  ambulances,  the  callous  drivers  are  here;  groans,  sometimes 
a  scream,  resound  through  the  flickering  light  and  the  darkness.  He  is  there, 
moving  around;  he  soothes,  he  oomforts,  he  consoles,  he  assists  to  lift  the 
wounded  into  the  ambulances;  he  helps  to  place  the  worst  cases  on  the 
stretchers ;  his  kiss  is  warm  upon  the  pallid  lips  of  some  who  are  mere 
children ;  his  tears  drop  upon  the  faces  of  the  dying.  Here  he  is  in  the 
hospitals  of  Washington — the  Campbell,  the  Patent  Office,  the  Eighth  Street, 
the  Judiciary,  the  Carver,  the  Douglas,  the  Armory  Square.  He  writes 
letters ;  he  writes  to  fathers,  mothers,  brothers,  wives,  sweethearts ;  some  of 
the  soldiers  are  poor  penmen ;  some  cannot  get  paper  and  envelopes ;  some 
fear  to  write  lest  they  should  worry  the  folks  at  home;  he  writes  for  them  all; 
he  uses  diat  genius  which  shall  endure  to  the  latest  generation,  to  say  the 
felicitous,  the  consoling,  the  cheering,  the  prudent,  the  best  word.  He  goes 
through  tlie  wards,  he  talks  cheerfully,  he  distributes  amusing  reading  matter; 
at  night  or  by  day,  when  the  horrible  monotony  of  the  hospital  weighs  like 
lead  on  every  soul,  he  reads  to  the  men;  he  is  careful  to  sit  away  from  the  cot 
of  any  poor  fellow  so  sick  or  wounded  as  to  be  easily  disturbed,  but  he  gathers 
into  a  large  group  as  many  as  he  can,  and  amuses  them  with  some  story  or 
enlivening  game,  like  that  of  "  Twenty  Questions,"  or  recites  some  little  poem 
or  speech,  or  starts  some  discussion,  or  with  some  device  dispels  the  gloom. 
For  his  daily  occupation,  he  goes  from  ward  to  ward,  doing  all  he  can  to 
hearten  and  revive  the  spirits  of  the  sufferers,  and  keep  the  balance  in  favor  of 
their  recovery.  Usually,  his  plan  is  to  pass,  with  haversack  strapped  across  his 
shoulder,  from  cot  to  cot,  distributing  small  gifts;  his  theory  is  that  these  men, 
far  from  home,  lonely,  sick  at  heart,  need  more  than  anything  some  practical 
token  that  they  are  not  forsaken,  that  some  one  feels  a  fatherly  or  brotherly 
interest  in  them ;  hence,  he  gives  them  what  he  can ;  to  particular  cases, 
entirely  penniless,  he  distributes  small  sums  of  money,  fifteen  cents,  twenty 
cents,  thirty  cent:  ^  fifty  cents,  not  much  to  each,  for  there  are  many,  but  under 


The  Good  Gray  Pod.  (1865-6).  127 

tlie  circumstances  these  little  sums  are  and  mean  a  great  deal.  He  also  dis- 
tributes and  directs  envelopes,  gives  letter  paper,  postage  stamps,  tobacco, 
apples,  figs,  sweet  biscuit,  preserves,  blackberries;  gets  delicate  food  for 
special  cases;  sometimes  a  dish  of  oysters  or  a  dainty  piece  of  meat,  or  some 
savory  morsel  for  some  poor  creature  who  loathes  the  hospital  fare,  but  whose 
appditc  may  be  tempted.  In  the  hot  weather  he  buys  boxes  of  oranges  and 
distributes  them,  grateful  to  lips  baked  with  fever;  he  buys  boxes  of  lemons, 
he  buys  sugar,  to  make  lemonade  lor  those  parched  throats  of  sick  soldiers; 
he  buys  canned  peaches,  strawberries,  pears;  he  buys  icecream  and  treats 
the  whole  hospital ;  he  buys  whatever  luxuries  his  limited  resources  will  allow, 
and  he  makes  them  go  as  far  as  he  can.  Where  does  he  get  the  means  for 
this  expenditure?  F'or  Walt  Whitman  is  poor;  he  is  poor,  and  has  a  right 
to  be  proud  of  his  poverty,  for  it  is  the  sacred,  the  ancient,  the  immemorial 
poverty  of  goodness  and  genius.  He  gets  the  means  by  writing  for  news- 
papers; he  expends  all  he  gets  upon  his  boys,  his  darlings,  the  sick  and 
maimed  soldiers — the  young  heroes  of  the  land  who  saved  their  country,  the 
laborers  of  America  wTio  fought  for  the  hopes  of  the  world.  He  adds  to  his 
own  earnings  the  contributions  of  noble  souls,  often  strangers,  who,  in  Pioston, 
in  New  York,  in  Providence,  in  Brooklyn,  in  Salem,  in  Washington  and  else- 
where, have  heard  that  such  a  man  walks  the  hospitals,  and  who  volunteer  to 
send  him  this  assistance  ;  when  at  last  he  gets  a  place  under  Government,  and 
till  Mr.  Harlan  turns  him  out,  he  has  a  salary  which  he  spends  in  the  same 
way ;  sometimes  liis  wrung  heart  gets  the  better  of  his  prudence,  and  he  spends 
till  he  himself  is  in  difficulties.  He  gives  all  his  money,  he  gives  all  his  time, 
he  gives  all  his  love.  To  every  inmate  of  the  hospital  something,  if  only  a 
vital  word,  a  cheering  touch,  a  caress,  a  trifling  gift;  but  always  in  his  rounds 
he  select'j  the  special  cases,  the  sorely  wounded,  tlie  deeply  despondent,  the 
homesick,  the  dying;  to  these  he  devotes  himself;  he  buoys  them  up  with 
fonc'i  words,  with  caresses,  widi  personal  affection  ;  he  bends  over  them,  strong, 
clean,  cheerful,  perfumed,  loving,  and  his  magnetic  touch  and  love  sustain 
them.  He  does  not  shrink  from  the  smell  of  their  sickening  gangrene;  he 
does  not  flinch  from  their  bloody  and  rotten  mutilations;  he  draws nigher  for 
all  that ;  he  sticks  closer ;  he  dresses  those  wounds ;  he  fans  those  burning 
temples  ;  he  moistens  those  parched  lips ;  he  washes  those  wasted  bodies  ;  he 
watches  often  and  often  in  the  dim  ward  by  the  sufferer's  cot  all  night  long ;  he 
reads  from  the  New  Testament,  the  words  sweeter  than  music  to  the  sinking 
soul;  he  soothes  with  prayer  the  bedside  of  the  dying;  he  sits,  mournful  and 
loving,  by  the  wasted  dead.  How  can  I  tell  the  story  of  his  labors?  How 
can  I  describe  the  scenes  among  which  he  moved  with  such  endurance  and 
devotion,  watched  by  me,  for  years  ? 

Few  know  the  spectacle  presented  by  those  grim  wards.  It  was  hideous. 
I  have  been  there  at  night  when  it  seemed  that  I  should  die  with  sympathy  if 
I  stayed ; — when  the  horrible  attitudes  of  anguish,  the  horizontal  shapes  of 


128  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

carlrxvcr  on  tlic  white  cots,  the  quiet  sleepers,  the  excruciated  emaciations  of  men, 
the  l)loody  bandages,  the  smell  of  plastered  sores,  the  dim  lamplight,  the  long 
white  ward,  the  gr<ians  of  some  jutient  half  hidden  behind  a  screen,  naked, 
shorn  of  both  arms,  held  by  the  assistant  upon  a  stool,  made  up  a  scene  whose 
well-compounded  horror  is  unspeakable.  Now  realize  a  man  without  worldly 
inducement,  without  reward,  from  love  and  compassion  only,  giving  up  his 
life  to  scenes  like  these;  foregoing  pleasure  and  rest  for  vigils,  as  in  chambers 
of  torture,  among  the  despairing,  the  mangled,  the  dying,  the  forms  upon 
which  shell  and  rifle  and  sabre  had  wrought  every  bizarre  atrocity  of  mutila- 
tion •  immuring  himself  in  the  air  of  their  sighs,  their  moans,  the  mutter  and 
SLieam  of  their  delirium  ;  breathing  the  stench  of  their  putrid  wounds  ;  taking 
up  his  part  and  lot  with  them,  living  a  life  of  privation  and  denial,  and  hoard- 
ing his  >canty  means  for  the  relief  and  mitigation  of  their  anguish.  That 
man  is  Walt  Whitman!  I  said  his  labors  have  been  immense.  The  word  is 
well  chosen.  I  speak  within  bounds  when  I  say  that,  during  those  years,  he 
has  been  in  contact  with,  and,  in  one  form  or  another,  either  in  hospital  or  on 
the  field,  personally  ministered  to  upward  of  one  huncfred  thousand  sick  and 
wounded  men.  You  mothers  of  America, these  were  your  sons!  Faithfully, 
and  with  a  mother's  love,  he  tended  them  for  you  !  Many  and  many  a  life 
has  he  saved — many  a  time  has  he  felt  his  heart  grow  great  with  that  delicious 
triumph — many  a  home  owes  its  best  beloved  to  him.  Sick  and  wounded, 
officers  and  privates,  the  black  soldiers  as  well  as  the  white,  the  teamsters,  the 
poor  creatures  in  the  contraband  camps,  the  rebel  the  same  as  the  loyal — he 
did  his  best  for  them  all ;  they  were  all  sufferers,  they  were  all  men. — Let  him 
pass.  I  note  Thoreau's  saying,  that  he  suggests  something  more  than  human. 
It  is  true.  I  see  it  in  his  book  and  in  his  life.  To  that  something  more  than 
human  which  is  also  in  all  men — to  the  hour  of  judgment,  to  the  hour  of 
sanity,  let  me  resign  him.  Not  for  such  as  I  to  vindicate  such  as  he.  Not 
for  him,  perhaps,  the  recognition  of  his  day  and  generation.  But  a  life  and 
deeds  like  his,  lightly  esteemed  by  men,  sink  deep  into  the  memory  of  Man. 
Great  is  the  stormy  fight  of  Zutphen;  it  is  the  young  lion  of  English  Prot- 
estantism springing  in  haughty  fury  for  the  defence  of  the  Netherlands  from 
the  bloody  ravin  of  Spain ;  but  Philip  Sidney  passing  the  flask  of  water  from 
his  own  lips  to  the  dying  soldier  looms  gigantic,  and  makes  all  the  foregrcund 
of  its  nobie  purpose  and  martial  rage ;  and  whatever  be  the  verdict  of  the 
•present,  sure  am  I  that  hereafter  and  to  the  latest  ages,  when  Bull  Run  and 
Shiloh  and  Port  Hudson,  when  Vicksburg  and  Stone  River  and  Fort  Donel- 
son,  when  Pea  Ridge  and  Chancellorsville  and  Gettysburg  and  the  Wilder- 
ness, and  the  great  march  from  Atlanta  to  Savannah,  and  Richmond  rolled  in 
flame,  and  all  the  battles  for  the  life  of  the  Republic  against  her  last  internal 
foe  are  gathered  up  in  accumulated  terraces  of  struggle  upon  the  mountain 
of  history,  well-relieved  against  those  bright  and  bloody  tumultuous  giant 
tableaux,  and  all  the  dust  and  thunder  of  a  noble  war,  the  men  and  women 


The  Good  Gray  Poet.  (1865 -'6).  129 

of  America  will  love  to  gaze  upon  the  stalwart  form  of  the  good  gray  poet, 
bending  to  heal  the  hurts  of  their  wounded  and  soothe  the  souls  of  their  dy- 
ing, and  the  deep  and  simple  words  of  the  Jast  great  martyr  will  be  theirs, — 
"  Well,  he  looks  like  A  MAN." 

So  let  me  leave  him.  And  if  there  be  any  who  think  this  tribute  in  bad 
taste,  even  to  a  poet  so  great,  a  person  so  unusual,  a  man  so  heroic  and  lov- 
ing, I  answer,  that  when  on  grounds  of  taste,  foes  withhold  detraction,  friends 
may  witiihold  eulogy ;  and  that  at  any  rate  I  recognize  no  reason  for  keeping 
back  just  words  of  love  and  reverence  when,  as  in  this  case,  they  must  glow 
upon  the  sullen  foil  of  the  printed  hatreds  of  years.  To  that  long  record  of 
hostility,  I  am  only  proud  to  be  able  to  oppose  this  record  of  affection.  And 
with  respect  to  the  crowning  enmity  of  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  let  no 
person  misjudge  the  motives  upon  which  I  denounce  it.  Personally,  apart 
from  this  act,  I  have  nothing  against  Mr.  Harlan.  He  is  of  my  own  party; 
and  my  politics  have  been  from  my  youth  essentially  the  same  as  his  own.  I  do 
not  know  him  ;  I  have  never  even  seen  him;  1  criticise  no  attitude  nor  action 
of  his  life  but  this;  and  I  criticise  this  with  as  little  personality  as  I  can  give 
to  an  action  so  personal.  I  withhold,  too,  as  far  as  I  can,  every  expression 
of  resentment ;  and  no  one  who  knew  all  I  know  of  this  matter  could  fail  to 
credit  me  with  singular  and  great  moderation.  For,  behind  what  I  have  re- 
lated, there  is  another  history,  every  incident  of  which  I  have  recovered  from 
the  obscurity  to  which  it  was  confided;  and,  as  I  think  of  it,  it  is  with  diffi- 
culty that  I  restrain  my  just  indignation.  Instead  of  my  comparatively  cold 
and  sober  treatment,  this  transaction  deserves  rather  tlie  pitiless  exposure,  the 
measureless.stern  anger,  the  red-hot  steel  scourge  of  Juvenal.  But  I  leave  un- 
told its  darkest  details,  and,  waiving  every  other  consideration,  I  rest  solely  and 
squarely  on  the  general  indignity  and  injury  this  action  offers  to  intellectual 
liberty.  I  claim  that  to  expel  an  author  from  a  public  office  and  subject  him 
to  public  contumely,  solely  because  he  has  published  a  book  which  no  one 
can  declare  immoral  without  declaring  all  the  grand  books  immoral,  is  to  affix 
a  penalty  to  thought,  and  to  obstruct  the  freedom  of  letters.  I  declare  this 
act  the  audacious  captain  of  a  series  of  acts,  and  a  style  of  opinions  whose 
tendency  and  effect  throughout  Christendom  is  to  dwarf  and  degrade  litera- 
ture, and  to  make  great  books  impossible,  except  under  pains  of  martyrdom. 
As  such,  I  arraign  it  before  every  liberal  and  thoughtful  mind.  I  denounce 
it  as  a  sinister  preceder';  as  a  ban  upon  the  free  action  of  genius;  as  a  logi- 
cal insult  to  all-commanding  literature ;  and  as  in  every  way  a  most  serious 
and  heinous  wrong.  Difference  of  opinion  there  may  and  must  be  upon  the 
topics  which  in  these  pages  I  have  grouped  around  it,  but  upon  the  act  itself 
there  can  be  none.  As  I  drag  it  up  here  into  the  sight  of  the  world,  I  call 
upon  every  scholar,  every  man  of  letters,  every  editor,  every  good  fellow 
everywhere  who  wields  the  pen,  to  make  common  cause  with  me  in  rousing 
upon  it  the  full  tempest  of  reprobation  it  deserves.     I  remember  Tennyson, 


130  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

a  spirit  of  vengeance  over  the  desecrated  grave  of  Moore ;  I  think  of  Scott 
rolling  back  the  tide  of  obloquy  from  Byron;  I  see  Addison  gilding  the 
blackening  fame  of  Swift ;  I  mark  Southampton  befriending  Shakespeare  ;  I 
recall  Du  Bellay  enshielding  Rabelais;  I  behold  Hutten  fortressing  Luther; 
here  is  Boccaccio  lifting  the  darkness  from  Dante,  and  scattering  flame  on  his 
foes  in  Florence;  this  is  Bembo  protecting  Pomponatius;  that  is  GrostSte 
enfolding  Roger  Bacon  from  the  monkish  fury;  there,  covered  with  light,  is 
Aristophanes  defending  /Eschylus ;  and  if  there  lives  aught  of  that  old  chiv- 
alry of  letters,  which  in  all  ages  has  sprung  to  the  succor  and  defence  of 
genius,  I  summon  it  to  act  the  part  of  honor  and  duty  upon  a  wrong  which, 
done  to  a  single  member  of  the  great  confraternity  of  literature,  is  done  to 
all,  and  which  flings  insult  and  menace  upon  every  immortal  page  that  dares 
transcend  the  wicked  heart  or  the  constricted  brain,  God  grant  that  not  in 
vain  upon  this  outrage  do  I  invoke  the  judgment  of  the  mighty  spirit  of  lite- 
rature, and  the  fires  of  every  honest  heart ! 

William  Douglas  O'Connor. 


TWO  SUBSEQUENT  LETTERS. 

A  NOTEWORTHY  incident  following  the  publication  of  Mr  O'Connor's  pam- 
phlet is  embodied  in  the  subjoined  correspondence.  The  defence  of  the  poet 
appears  to  have  been  received  by  the  literary  journals  of  the  United  States 
with  a  complete  unanimity  of  abuse  and  ridicule.  Among  these  reviews  was 
one  in  the  New  York  "  Round  Table"  of  January  20th,  1866,  penned  by  a 
minor  poet,  of  considerable  distinction  in  New  York  literary  circles,  Mr. 
Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  His  article,  written  in  a  vein  of  flippant  inso- 
leiice  and  containing  a  number  of  insulting  references  to  Mr.  O'Connor's  pre- 
vious literary  work,  was  nevertheless  relieved  by  the  admission,  however 
carelessly  made,  that  Mr.  Harlan  "  deserved  and  deserves  to  be  pilloried  in 
the  contempt  of  tiiinking  men  for  this  wanton  insult  to  literature  in  the  person 
of  Mr.  Whitman."  This  remark,  imbedded  in  a  column  of  rude  persiflage, 
like  a  fdamcnt  of  gold  in  an  acre  of  sage  and  alkali,  was  the  only  observation 
adverse  to  Mr.  Harlan's  act  which  appeared  in  any  American  literary  journal, 
and  appears  to  have  suggested  the  necessity  for  the  follow  iig  curiously  clumsy 
and  lying  parry,  made  a  week  later  (January  27th)  in  the  "  Round  Table"  by 
Mr.  Charles  Lanm.in,  a  gentleman  of  considerable  literary  pretensions,  the 
author  of  the  "  Biographical  Dictionary  of  Congress,"  formerly,  it  is  said, 
secretary  to  Daniel  Webster  and  at  this  time  one  of  the  officers  of  the  Inte- 
rior Dei)artment  under  Mr.  Harlan.  The  line  of  defence  chosen  for 
the  Secretary  by  one  of  his  officers  and  friends  is  so  extraordinary  as  to  add  a 


Tivo  Subsequent  Letters.  131 

new  feature  of  outrage  to  an  already  sufficiently  scandalous  transaction.     Mr. 
l,anman's  communication  was  as  follows: 

Washington,  January  19th,  1866. 

To  THE  Editor  of  the  "Round  Taiu.e." 

Sir  :  Your  notice  of  "  The  Good  Gray  Poet"  contains  one  important  error 
that  I  desire,  as  a  friend  of  Secretary  Harlan,  to  correct.  You  intimate,  or, 
rather,  reiterate  the  chartje  of  Mr.  Walt  Whitman's  defender — that  the  author 
of  Leaves  of  Gra<:s  was  removed  from  a  clerkship  because  of  his  rclii^ioiis 
opinions.  To  this  statement  I  give  the  most  positive  denial ;  and  to  substan- 
tiate it  I  have  only  to  mention  the  lact  that  there  arc  employed  in  the  Interior 
Department  gentlemen  of  every  possible  shade  of  religious  opinion.  Although 
the  Hon.  Secretary  is  a  high-minded  and  Christian  gentleman,  he  has  never,  in 
a  single  instance,  questioned  an  employe  in  regard  to  his  religious  belief,  and 
for  the  very  good  reason  that  with  those  beliefs  he  has  nothing  to  do. 
Nor  is  he  in  the  habit  of  removing  subordinates  from  office  for  their  political 
opinions.  Drunkards  and  incompetent  men  he  does  not  consider  fit  to  be 
intrusted  with  the  business  of  the  nation,  and  when  such  men  are  reported  to 
him,  they  are  very  likely  to  be  discharged.  For  removing  Mr.  Whitman 
from  a  clerkship  there  were  two  satisfactory  reasons :  he  was  wholly  unfit  to 
perform  the  duties  which  were  assigned  to  his  desk;  and  a  volume  which  he 
published  and  caused  to  be  circulated  tlirough  the  public  offices  was  so  coarse, 
indecent,  and  corrupting  in  its  thought  and  language,  as  to  jeopardize  the 
reputation  of  the  Department. 

Respectfully  yours, 

Charles  Lanman. 

To  this  indescribable  document  Mr.  O'Connor  replied  in  the  "  Round 
Table  "  of  a  week  later  (February  3d)  as  follows: 

Washington,  January  26th,  1SC6. 

To  the  Editor  of  the  "  Round  Table." 

Sir  :  Allow  mc  a  few  words  of  reply  to  Mr.  Charles  I.anman's  extraordi- 
nary letter  in  your  last  issue  respecting  the  accusation  brouglit  against  Mr. 
Harlan  by  my  pamphlet,  "  The  Good  Gray  Poet." 

Ah  the  statements  of  that  letter  are  unfounded  in  every  particular,  they  are 
probably  as  unauthorized  as  they  are  gratuitous.  Nobody  ever  charged  lliat 
Mr.  Whitman  was  removeil  by  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior  "  because  of  his 
religious  opinions."     I  certainly  made  no  such  charge,  nor  did  your  reviewer. 

Mr.  Lanman's  other  assertions  are  equally  hardy.  It  is  not  true  that  Mr. 
Whitman  was  removed  because  "  he  was  wholly  unfit  to  iierfonn  the  duties 
which  were  assi;;nod  to  his  desk."  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Harlan  himself  said 
at  the  time  of  the  dismissal  that  he  had  no  fault  to  find  with  Mr.  Whitman  in 


132  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

regard  to  the  performance  of  his  official  duties,  but  that  he  was  discharged 
solely  and  onl)'  for  being  the  author  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  P  or  is  it  true  that 
Mr.  Whitman  was  removed  because  he  published  and  circulated  in  the  Depart- 
ment any  volume  whatever.  Lea7)es  of  Grass  was  published  years  ago,  and 
has  been  for  some  time  out  of  print,  "  Drum-Taps,"  Mr.  Whitman's  recent 
book,  consists  mainly  of  poems  of  the  war,  and  does  not  contain  one  word 
that  even  Mr.  Harlan  could  accuse. 

This  disposes  of  Mr.  Lanman's  statements.  But  I  note  the  color  he  gives 
his  letter  by  the  insinuated  word  "  drunkards,"  and  whenever  he  has  the 
courage  to  put  that  as  a  charge  which  he  has  only  ventured  to  put  as  an 
innuendo,  I  may  deal  with  it  and  him. 

The  facts  are  precisely  as  I  have  stated  them  in  my  pamphlet,  and  whatever 
rejoinder  any  volunteer  may  choose  to  h^iztirdy  those  fads  Afr.  Harlan  himself 
will  never  deny. 

You  will,  perhaps,  permit  me  this  opportunity  to  express  my  obligations  to 
your  reviewer.  In  his  notice  of  my  pamphlet  he  says  that  the  Secretary  of 
the  Interior  '*  deserved  and  deserves  to  be  pilloried  in  the  contempt  of  think- 
ing men  for  this  wanton  insult  to  literature  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Whitman." 
I  thank  him  for  those  words.  Coupled  with  such  a  condemnation  of  the  out- 
rage I  denounce,  no  affront,  no  ridicule  heaped  on  me  or  my  writings  can 
excite  in  my  mind  any  feeling  unmixed  with  gratitude.  Shaftesbury,  in  Eng- 
land, is,  if  report  says  truly,  a  bigot  peer,  and  Walter  Savage  Landor  wrote 
poems  which  almost  rivalled  the  license  of  the  Ron)an  ;  but  if  ever  the  lord, 
as  the  head  of  a  Department,  had  dismissed  the  poet  from  an  official  station 
for  his  verses,  the  British  press,  whatever  it  thought  of  the  poetry,  would  have 
stirred  from  John  o'  Groat's  to  Land's  End  with  a  tumult  of  denunciation 
wliose  impulse  would  have  swept  over  the  continent.  I  want  a  similar  spirit 
here;  and  it  matters  very  little  what  is  said  of  my  compositions,  if  the  press 
and  people  of  this  country,  by  their  resentment  at  an  attempt  to  impose  checks 
and  penalties  on  intellectual  liberty  and  the  freedom  of  letters,  and  by  their 
rebuke  of  a  gross  violation  of  the  proprieties  of  the  administration  of  a  great 
Department,  show  that  they  are  not  below  the  decent  level  of  Europe. 

Very  respectfully, 

W.  D.  O'Connor. 


PART  11. 

HISTORY  OF  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 
ANALYSIS  OF  THE  POEMS. 
ANALYSIS  CONTINUED. 
APPENDIX  TO  PART  IT. 


(133) 


When  the  true  poet  cornes,  how  shall  we  know  him — 

By  what  clear  token, — manners,  language,  dress  ? 
Or  shall  a  voice  from  Heaven  spf^ak  and  show  him : 

Ilim  the  swift  healer  of  the'Earth's  distress! 
Tell  us  that  when  the  long  expected  comes 

At  last,  with  mirth  and  melody  and  singing, 
We  him  may  greet  with  banners,  beat  of  drums, 

Welcome  of  men  and  maids,  and  joy-bells  ringing; 
And,  for  this  poet  of  ours, 
Laurels  and  flowers. 

Thus  shall  ye  know  him — this  shall  be  his  token; 

Manners  like  other  men,  an  unstrange  gear ; 
His  speech  not  musical,  but  harsh  and  broken 

Shall  sound  at  first,  each  line  a  driven  spear ; 
For  he  shall  sing  as  in  the  centuries  olden, 

Before  mankind  its  earliest  fire  forgot; 
Yet  whoso  listens  long  hears  music  golden. 

How  shall  ye  know  him?     Yc  shall  know  him  not 
Till  ended  hate  and  scorn, 
To  the  grave  he's  borne. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


('34) 


CHAPTER  I. 

HISTORY  OF  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Walt  Whitman  began  to  write  for  the  periodical  press  at  the 
age  of  fourteen  years — was  engaged  as  editor  at  maturity  and 
afterwards — and  continues  as  contributor  to  newspapers  and 
magazines  to  this  day.  If  all  he  has  ever  written  were  collected, 
it  would  probably  make  many  good-sized  volumes.  I  have  no 
knowledge  of  any  of  the  pieces  in  Leaves  of  Grass  before  the 
publication  of  the  first  edition  in  1855.  Walt  Whitman  tells  us 
in  one  of  the  prose  prefaces  preserved  in  Specimen  Days,  that  he 
had  more  or  less  consciously  the  plan  of  the  poems  in  his  mind 
for  eight  years  before,  and  that  during  those  eight  years  they 
took  many  shapes ;  that  in  the  course  of  those  years  he  wrote 
and  destroyed  a  great  deal ;  that,  at  the  last,  the  work  assumed 
a  form  very  different  from  any  at  first  expected  ;  but  that  from 
first  to  last  (from  the  first  definite  conception  of  the  work  in 
say  i853-'54,  until  itscompletion  in  1881)  his  underlying  purpose 
was  religious.  It  seems  that  so  much  was  clear  in  his  mind  from 
the  beginning,  but  how  the  plan  was  to  be  formulated  seemed  not 
at  all  clear,  and  had  to  be  toilsomely  worked  out.  A  great  deal 
else,  of  course,  had  to  be  present  in  his  mind  besides  the  inten- 
tion. In  the  "Song  of  the  Answerer,"  enumerating  other  ele- 
ments necessary  for  such  an  enterprise,  he  says. 

Divine  instinct,  breadth  of  vision,  the  law  of  reason,  health,  rudeness  of  body, 

witiidrawnncss, 
Gayety,  sun-tan,  air-sweetness — such  are  some  of  the  words  of  poems. 

These  he  had,  and  beneath  all,  and  above  all,  and  including 
all,  lying  below  consciousness,  he  had  in  unparalleled  perfection 
tiiat  rarest  master  faculty  which  we  call  moral  elevation.  Along 
with  these,  his  race-stock,  immediate  ancestry,  mode  of  upbring- 
ing, outer  life,  surroundings,  and  American  equipment,  have  to 

(  '35  ) 


136  Wa/l  Whitman. 

be  taken  into  account.  It  is  upon  these  that  he  himself  always 
lays  the  most  weight.  He  once  said  to  the  present  writer,  "  The 
**  fifteen  years  from  1840  to  1855  were  the  gestation  or  formative 
"  periods  oi Leaves  of  Grass ^  not  only  in  Brooklyn  and  New  York, 
**  but  from  several  extensive  jaunts  through  the  States — including 
"the  Western  and  Southern  regions  and  cities,  Baltimore,  Cin- 
"  cinnati,  Chicago,  St.  Louis,  New  Orleans,  Texas,  the  Mississippi 
"and  Missouri  Rivers,  the  great  lakes  and  Niagara,  and  through 
"  New  York  from  Buffalo  to  Albany.  Large  parts  of  the  poems, 
"and  several  of  them  wholly,  were  incarnated  on  those  jaunts  or 
"amid  these  scenes.  Out  of  such  experiences  came  the  physi- 
"  ology  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  in  my  opinion  the  main  part.  The 
"psychology  of  the  book  is  a  deeper  problem;  it  is  doubtful 
"whether  the  latter  element  can  be  traced.  It  is,  perhaps,  only 
"to  be  studied  out  in  the  poems  themselves,  and  )S  a  hard  study 
"there." 

At  another  time,  speaking  with  more  than  usual  deliberation 
to  a  group  of  medical  men,  friends  of  his,  in  answer  to  their  in- 
quiries, on  an  occasion  where  I  was  present,  he  said,  "  One  main 
"  object  I  had  from  the  first  was  to  sing,  and  sing  to  the  full,  the 
"  ecstasy  of  simple  physiological  Being.  This,  when  full  develop- 
"  ment  and  balance  combine  in  it,  seemed,  and  yet  seems,  far 
"beyond  all  outside  pleasures;  and  when  the  moral  element  and 
"an  affinity  with  Nature  in  her  myriad  exhibitiors  of  day  and 
"  night  are  found  with  it,  makes  the  happy  Persona  It  fy,  the  true 
"and  intended  result  (if  they  ever  have  any)  of  my  poems." 
This  last  t)^=:ntence  contains  a  key  to  the  central  secret  oi  Leaves 
of  Grass — i.iat  this  book,  namely,  represents  a  man  whose  ordi- 
nary every-day  relationship  with  Nature  is  such  that  to  him 
mere  existence  is  happiness. 

The  problem  then  before  him  was  to  express  not  what  he  heard, 
or  saw,  or  fancied,  or  had  read,  but  one  far  deeper  and  more  diffi- 
cult to  express,  namely,  Himself.  To  put  the  man  Walt  Whitman 
in  his  book,  not  especially  dressed,  polished,  prepared,  not  for  con- 
ventional society,  but  for  Nature,  for  God,  for  America — given  as 
a  man  gives  himself  to  his  wife,  or  as  a  woman  gives  herself  to 
her  husband — whole,  complete,  natural — with  perfect  love,  joy, 


History  of  Leaves  of  Grass — (1855-82).  137 

and  trust.  This  is  something  that,  as  I  believe,  was  never  before 
dared  or  done  in  literature.  This  is  the  task  that  he  set  for  him- 
self, and  that  he  has  accomplished.  If  the  man  were  merely  an 
ordinary  person,  such  a  purpose,  such  a  book,  written  with  abso- 
lute sincerity,  would  possess  the  most  extraordinary  interest ;  but 
Leaves  of  Grass  has  an  interest  far  greater,  derived  from  the  ex- 
ceptional personality  which  is  embodied  in  it.  Such  was,  in  out- 
line or  brief  suggestion,  the  intention  with  which  it  was  written, 
and  the  reason  for  writing  it.  Then  I  think  a  profound  part  of 
the  forecasting  of  the  work  was  the  way  in  which  many  things 
were  left  open  for  future  adjustment. 

By  the  spring  of  1855,  Walt  Whitman  had  found  or  made  a 
style  in  which  he  could  express  himself,  and  in  that  style  he  had 
(after,  as  he  has  told  me,  elaborately  building  up  the  structure,  and 
then  utterly  demolishing  it,  five  different  times)  written  twelve 
poems,  and  a  long  prose  preface  which  was  simply  another  poem. 
Of  these  he  printed  a  thousand  copies.  It  was  a  thin  quarto,  the 
preface  filling  xii.,  and  the  body  of  the  book  95  pages,  on  rather 
poor  paper,  and  in  the  type  printers  call  **  English."  The  large 
title-page  has  the  words  "Leaves  of  Grass,  Brooklyn,  New 
York,  1855,"  only.  Facing  the  title  is  the  miniature  of  a  man 
who  looks  about  thirty-five  to  forty  years  old.  He  wears  a  broad- 
brimmed,  wide-awake  hat,  has  a  large  forehead  and  strongly- 
marked  features.  The  face  (to  my  mind)  expresses  sadness  and 
good  nature.  No  part  of  the  face  is  shaved.  The  beard  is  clipped 
rather  short  and  is  turning  gray.  The  figure  is  shown  down  to 
the  knees.  This  is  Walt  Whitman  from  life  in  his  thirty-sixth 
year.  The  picture  was  engraved  on  steel  by  McRae,  of  N(  w 
York,  from  a  daguerreotype  taken  one  hot  day  in  July,  1854,  by 
Gabriel  Harrison,  of  Brooklyn.  (The  same  picture  is  used  in 
the  current  1882  edition.)  The  twelve  poems  constituting  the 
body  of  the  book  are  unnamed,  except  for  the  words  Leaves  of 
Grass,  which  are  used  as  a  page  heading  throughout,  and  besides 
as  a  heading  to  some,  but  not  all,  of  the  individual  pieces.  Giv- 
ing those  twelve  1855  poems  the  names  that  they  bear  in  the 
ultimate  1882  edition,  the  first  eleven  aic : 

la 


138 


IVaU  Whitman. 


1.  Song  of  Myself. 

2.  A  Song  for  Occupations. 

3.  To  Think  of  Time. 

4.  The  Sleepers. 

5.  I  Sing  the  Body  Electric. 

6.  I'aces. 


7.  Song  of  the  Answerer. 

8.  Europe  the  721!  and  73d  Years  of 

These  States. 

9.  A  Boston  Ballad  (1854). 

10.  There  was  a  Child  went  forth. 

1 1 .  Who  Learns  my  Lesson  com  plete. 


The  twelfth,  though  retained  in  every  edition  until  the  pres- 
ent, 1882,  is  omitted  from  that.  Its  name  in  the  1876  edition  is 
"Great  are  the  Myths." 

The  book  now  being  manufactured,  copies  of  it  were  left  for 
sale  at  various  bookstores  in  New  York  and  Brooklyn.  Other 
copies  were  sent  to  magazines  and  newspapers,  and  others  to 
prominent  literary  men.  Of  those  that  were  placed  in  the  stores 
none  were  sold.  Those  that  were  sent  to  the  press  were,  in  quite 
every  instance,  either  not  noticed  at  all,  laughed  at,  or  reviewed 
with  the  bitterest  and  most  scurrilous  language  in  the  vocabulary 
of  the  reviewer's  contempt.  Those  sent  to  eminent  writers  were 
in  several  instances  returned,  in  some  cases  accompanied  by  in- 
sulting notes. 

The  first  reception  of  Leaves  of  Grass  by  the  world  was  in 
fact  about  as  disheartening  as  it  could  be.  Of  the  thousand 
copies  of  this  1855  edition,  some  were  given  away,  most  of  them 
were  lost,  abandoned,  or  destroyed.  It  is  certain  that  the  book 
quite  universally,  wherever  it  was  read,  excited  ridicule,  disgust, 
horror,  and  anger.  It  was  considered  meaningless,  badly  writ- 
ten, filthy,  atheistical,  and  utterly  reprehensible.  And  yet  there 
were  a  iew,  a  very  few  indeed,  who  suspected  from  the  first  that 
under  that  rough  exterior  might  be  something  of  extraordinary 
beauty,  vitality,  and  value.  Among  these  was  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  then  at  the  height  of  his  splendid  fame.  He  wrote  to 
Walt  Whitman  the  following  letter: 

Concord,  Mass.,  July  21st,  1833. 

Dear  Sir, — I  am  not  blind  to  the  worth  of  tlie  wonderful  gift  of  Leaves 
of  Grass.  I  find  it  the  most  extraordinary  piece  of  wit  and  wisdom  that 
America  has  yet  contributed.  I  am  very  happy  in  reading  it,  as  great  power 
makes  us  happy.  It  meets  *he  demand  I  am  always  making  of  what  seems 
the  sterile  and  stingy  Nature,  as  if  too  much  handiwork  or  too  much  lymph 


History  of  Leaves  of  Grass — (1855-82).  139 

in  the  temperament  were  making  our  Western  wits  fat  and  mean.  I  give  you 
joy  of  your  free  and  brave  thought.  I  have  great  joy  in  it.  I  find  incom- 
parable things,  said  incomparably  well,  as  they  must  be.  I  find  the  courage 
of  treatment  which  so  delights  us,  and  which  large  perception  only  can  in- 
spire. 

I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career,  which  yet  must  have  had  a 
long  foreground  somewhere,  for  such  a  start.  I  rubbed  my  eyes  a  little,  to 
see  if  this  sunbeam  were  no  illusion;  but  the  solid  sense  of  the  book  is  a 
sober  certainty.  It  has  the  best  merits,  namely,  of  fortifying  and  encour- 
aging. 

I  did  not  know,  until  I  last  night  saw  the  book  advertised  in  a  newspaper, 
that  I  could  trust  the  name  as  real  and  available  for  a  post-office. 

I  wish  to  sec  my  benefactor,  and  have  felt  much  like  striking  my  tasks,  and 
visiting  New  York  to  pay  you  my  respects. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 

This  letter  was  eventually  published  (at  first  refused  by  Walt 
Whitman,  but  on  second  and  pressing  application  he  consented), 
at  the  request  of  Chas.  A.  Dana,  then  managing  editor  of  the 
**  New  York  Tribune."  Though  it  could  not  arrest,  it  did  ser- 
vice in  partially  offsetting  the  tide  of  adverse  feeling  and  opin- 
ion which  overwhelmingly  set  in  against  the  poet  and  his  book. 
Walt  Whitman  has  since  been  censured  for  printing  a  so-called 
private  communication  of  opinion,  not  intended  for  the  public. 
In  answer  to  this,  besides  no  proof  that  the  letter  was  meant  to 
be  private,  the  editor  of  the  "Tribune,"  who  was  a  personal 
friend  of  both  Walt  Whitman  and  Mr.  Emerson,  would  probably 
have  been  a  judge  in  such  matters,  and  he  sought  it  for  the 
columns  of  his  paper,  as  legitimate  and  proper  to  both  parties. 
It  may  be  mentioned  here  that  vastly  as  the  two  nien,  R.  W. 
Emerson  and  Walt  Whitman,  differ  in  the  outward  show  of  their 
expression,  there  are  competent  scholars  who  accept  both  equally, 
and  use  them  to  complement  each  other.* 

The  next  year,  1856,  the  second  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass 
was  published  by  Fowler  &  Wells,  308  Broadway,  N.  Y.,  but  the 


*  Emerson  is  the  "knight-errant  of  the  moral  sentiment;"  Whitm.in  accepts  the  whole 
"  relentless  kosmos,"  and  theoretically,  at  least,  seems  to  blur  the  distinction  lietween  ri>;ht 
and  wrong.  Kmerson's  paj;es  are  like  beds  of  roses  and  violets  ;  VViiitman's  like  masses  if 
sun-llowers  and  silken-tasselled  maize.  Emerson  soars  upward  in  Plato's  chariot  over  the 
"  flickering  i  'smon  fdm  "  into  the  pure  realm  "  where  all  form  in  one  only  form  dissolves," 
and  when  he  returns  his  face  and  his  raiment  are  glistening  with  light  caught  from  that  pure 


I40  Wa/l  Whitman. 

firm  did  not  put  its  name  on  the  title-page.  The  volume  is  a 
small  i6mo.  of  384  pages.  The  same  miniature  of  the  author  is 
used.  The  words  Leaves  of  Grass  are  the  page-heading  through- 
out that  part  of  the  volume  containing  the  poems,  and  besides 
this  general  title,  each  poem  has  a  name,  but  in  no  instance 
exactly  the  same  as  it  bears  in  later  issues.  The  total  number 
of  poems  in  this  edition  is  thirty-two.  The  twenty  new  poems 
are — (giving  them  as  before  the  names  they  bear  in  the  i882-'83 
edition) : 

1.  Unfolded  out  of  the  Folds.  15.  To   a  Foil'd  European   Revolu- 

2.  Salut  au  Monde.  tionaire. 

3.  Song  of  the  Broadaxe.  16.  A  short  poem  part  of  which  is 

4.  By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore.  afterwards  incorporated  in  "  As 

5.  This  Compost.  I  sat  Alone  by  Blue  Ontario's 

6.  To  You.  Shore,"    and    the    rest    of    it 

7.  Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry.  omitted  from  subsequent  edi- 

8.  Song  of  the  Open  Road.  tions. 

9.  A  Woman  Waits  for  Me.  17.  Miracles. 

10.  A  poem  a  large  part  of  which  is     18.  Spontaneous  Me. 

left  out  of  the  later  editions,  19.  A  poem  called    "Toem  of  The 

but  which  is  partly  preserved  in  Propositions    of    Nakedness," 

"On  the  BeachatNight  Alone."  afterward  called  "Respondez," 

11.  Excelsior.  and  printed   in  every  edition 

12.  Song  of  Prudence.  subsequent  to  the  2d  down  to 

13.  A  poem  which  now  makes  part  that  of   i882-'3 — but  omitted 

of  the  "  Song  of  the  Answerer."  from  that. 

14.  Assurances.  20.  A  Song  of  the  Rolling  Earth. 

The  prose  preface  of  the  first  edition  did  not  appear  as  such  in 
this  second  edition,  but  part  of  it  was  embodied  in  a  few  of  the 

world  of  pe.-fect  types.  But  Whitman  is  like  the  ash-tree  Ygdrasil,  whose  triple  fountain- 
nourished  root  symbolizes  what  was  done,  what  is  done,  and  what  will  be  done,  and  the 
roaring  storm-tossed  boughs  of  it  reach  through  the  universe  and  bear  all  things  in  their  arms. 
Emerson  is  the  sweet  and  shining  Balder  ;  Whitman,  Thor  with  hammer  and  belt  of  strength. 
Toss  into  the  sunlight  a  handful  of  purest  mountain  lake  water  ;  the  thousand  droplets  that 
descend,  flash  and  burn  with  whitest  light,  and  on  the  silvery  surface  of  each  a  miniature 
world  lies  softly  pictured  in  richest  iridescence.  Like  these  droplets  are  Emerson's  sentences. 
But  the  writings  of  Whitman  are  the  golden  mirror  of  the  moon  lifted  up  out  of  immensity  by 
some  giant  hand,  that  it  may  throw  the  refulgence  of  the  sun  down  among  the  dark  forests  of 
earth,  over  its  fair  cities,  sweet,  flowery  fields,  and  dark  blue  seas,  concealing  nothing,  lighting 
earth's  passion  and  its  pain,  its  murders,  its  hatred  and  its  hideousness,  as  well  as  its  music, 
its  poetry  and  Its  flowers. — Lecture  of  W.  Sloanb  Kennedy. 


History  of  Leaves  of  Cr^jJ— (1855-82).  141 

new  pieces,  especially  in  "  By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore,"  **  Song  of 
the  Answerer,"  "To  a  Foil'd  European  Revolutionaire,"  and 
"Song  of  Prudence."  The  poems  extend  to  page  342.  The 
rest  of  the  volume,  called  "  Leaves  Droppings,"  is  made  up,  first, 
of  Emerson's  letter  to  Walt  Whitman,  preceding — second,  a 
long  letter  to  Emerson  in  reply — and  third,  of  twenty-six  pages 
of  criticisms  of  the  first  edition,  taken  from  various  quarters,  a 
few  favorable,  the  rest  intensely  bitter.  (Extracts  from  some  of 
these  criticisms  are  given  in  the  Appendix  to  Part  II.  of  this  vol.) 
Not  only  was  this  edition  also  savagely  criticised,  but  so  extreme 
was  the  feeling  excited  by  it,  that  some  good  people  in  New  York 
seriously  contemplated  having  the  author  indicted  and  tried  for 
publishing  an  obscene  book.  From  this  step  they  were  only 
deterred  by  the  consideration  that,  whatever  might  be  the  esti- 
mation which  his  book  deserved,  the  man  Walt  Whitman  was  so 
popular  in  New  York  and  Brooklyn,  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  get  a  jury  to  find  him  guilty. 

If  any  of  the  poems  of  Leaves  of  Grass  can  be  put  before  the 
rest,  we  may  say  that  upon  the  publication  of  the  second  edition 
the  fundamental  and  important  parts  of  the  author's  work  were 
done,  the  foundations  squarely  and  solidly  laid,  and  the  lines  of 
the  edifice  drawn  with  a  sure  hand.  The  work,  although  far 
from  completed,  was  already  of  supreme  beauty  and  of  infinite 
value.  What  then  did  men  say  of  it?  They  received  it  with 
such  a  unanimous  howl  of  execration  and  refusal,  that  after  the 
sale  of  a  small  number  of  copies.  Fowler  &  Wells,  the  pub- 
lishers, thinking  it  might  seriously  injure  their  business,  then 
very  flourishing,  peremptorily  threw  it  up,  and  the  publication 
oi  Leaves  of  Grass  ceased.  For  the  next  four  years  the  history 
of  the  work  is  a  blank. 

I  am  not  sure  but  the  attitude  and  course  of  Walt  "Whitman, 
these  following  years,  form  the  most  heroic  part  of  all.  He 
went  on  his  vay  with  the  same  enjoyment  of  life,  the  same  ruddy 
countenance,  the  same  tree,  elastic  stride,  through  the  tumult  of 
sneers  and  hisses,  as  if  he  were  surrounded  by  nothing  but  ap- 
plause ;  not  in  the  slightest  degree  abashed  or  roused  to  resent- 


142  WaU  IVhitman. 

ment  by  the  taunts  and  opposition.  The  poems  written  directly 
after  the  collapse  of  this  second  edition  (compare,  for  instance, 
"  Starting  from  Paumanok,"  and  "  Whoever  you  are,  holding  me 
now  in  hand,")  are,  if  possible,  more  sympathetic,  exultant,  ar- 
rogant, and  make  larger  claims  than  any.  So  far,  the  book  had 
reached  no  circulation  worth  mentioning;  probably  not  a  hun- 
dred copies  had  been  sold  of  both  first  and  second  editions.  It 
is  likely  that  at  the  time  when  the  publishers  of  the  second  edi- 
tion withdrew  it  from  the  market  not  a  thousand  people  had  read 
it,  and  not  one  in  fifty  of  these  would  have  the  least  idea  what 
it  was  about. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  year  1856  Thoreau  called  upon  Walt 
Whitman  (Emerson  had  twice  already  visited  him),  and  shortly 
afterwards  T.  wrote  a  letter  to  a  friend,  extremely  curious  as 
showing  the  impression  made  by  the  poet  at  that  time  upon  so 
fine  a  genius  and  so  sensible  a  man  as  the  Walden  hermit.  The 
uncertain  tone  of  the  letter,  and  the  contradictions  in  it,  are 
remarkably  suggestive : 

Concord,  December  7th,  1856. 

Mr.  B  .  .  .  .  That  Walt  Whitman  of  whom  I  wrote  to  you  is  the  most 
interesting  fact  to  me  at  present.  I  have  just  read  his  second  edition  (which 
he  gave  me)  and  it  has  done  me  more  good  than  any  reading  for  a  long  time. 
Perhaps  I  remember  best  the  "  Poem  of  Walt  Whitman,  an  American  "  [now 
called  "  Song  of  Myself"]  and  the  "  Sundown  Poem  "  [now  called  "  Cross- 
ing Brooklyn  Ferry"].  There  are  two  or  three  pieces  in  the  book  which  are 
disagreeable,  to  say  the  least;  simply  sensual.  He  does  not  celebrate  love  at 
all.  It  is  as  if  the  beasts  spoke.  I  think  that  men  have  not  been  ashamed  of 
themselves  without  reason.  No  doubt  there  have  always  been  dens  where 
such  deeds  were  unblushingly  recited,  and  it  is  no  merit  to  compete  with  their 
inhabitants.  But  even  on  this  side  he  has  spoken  more  truth  than  any  Amer- 
ican or  modern  that  I  know.  I  have  found  his  poem  exhilarating,  encouraging. 
As  for  its  sensuality — and  it  may  turn  out  to  be  less  sensual  than  it  appears — 
I  do  not  so  much  wisli  that  those  parts  were  not  written,  as  that  men  and 
women  were  so  pure  that  they  could  read  them  without  harm,  that  is,  without 
understanding  them.  One  woman  told  me  that  no  woman  could  read  it — as 
if  a  man  could  read  what  a  woman  could  not.  Of  course,  Walt  Whitman  can 
communicate  to  us  no  new  experience,  and  if  we  are  shocked,  whose  expe- 
rience is  it  we  are  reminded  of? 

On  the  whole,  it  sounds  to  me  very  brave  and  American,  after  whatever 


History  of  Leaves  of  Grass — (1855-82),  143 

deductions.  I  do  not  believe  that  all  the  sermons,  so  called,  that  have  been 
preached  in  this  land,  put  together,  are  equal  to  it  for  preaching.  We  ought 
to  rejoice  greatly  in  him.  He  occasionally  suggests  something  a  little  more 
than  human.  You  can't  confound  him  with  the  other  inhaliitants  of  Brook- 
lyn or  New  York.  How  they  must  shudder  when  they  read  him  !  He  is 
awfully  good.  To  be  sure,  I  sometime  feel  a  little  imposed  on.  liy  his 
heartiness  and  broad  generalities  he  puts  me  into  a  liberal  frame  of  mind,  pre- 
pared to  see  wonders — and,  as  it  were,  sets  me  upon  a  hill,  or  in  the  midst  of 
a  plain, — stirs  me  up  well,  and  then  throws  in — a  thousand  of  brick  !  Though 
rude  and  sometimes  ineffectual,  it  is  a  great  primitive  poem,  an  alarum  or 
trumpet-note  ringing  through  the  American  camp.  Wonderfully  like  the 
Orientals,  too,  considering  that,  when  I  asked  him  if  he  had  read  them,  he 
answered,  *'  No;  tell  me  about  them." 

I  did  not  ;;Lt  far  in  conversation  with  him,  two  more  being  present — and 
among  the  i^w  things  that  I  chanced  to  say,  I  remember  that  one  was,  in 
answer  to  him  as  representing  America,  that  I  did  not  think  much  of  America, 
or  of  politics,  and  so  on — which  may  have  been  somewhat  of  a  damper  to 
him. 

Since  I  have  seen  him,  I  find  that  I  am  not  disturbed  by  any  brag  or  egotism 
in  his  book.  He  may  turn  out  the  least  of  a  braggart  of  all,  having  a  better 
right  to  be  confident. 

He  is  a  great  fellow.  H.  D.  T. 

During  i857-'8-*9  Leaves  of  Grass  was  out  of  print.  In  i860 
a  third  edition  appeared,  very  much  larger  and  handsomer  than 
either  of  the  preceding,  published  by  Thayer  &  Eldridge,  of 
Boston,  beautifully  printed  on  heavy  white  paper,  and  strongly 
bound  in  clotii — a  volume  of  456  pages,  containing  the  32  poeir»s 
of  the  second  edition,  and  izz  new  ones.  Many  of  the  pieces  have 
individual  names,  but  most  of  them  are  named  by  groups.  The 
words  Leaves  of  Grass  constitute  the  headline  on  the  left-hand 
page  throughout  the  volume ;  the  right-hand  page  bears  the  name 
of  the  poem  or  group  of  poems.  The  likeness  of  the  author, 
which  accompanies  the  two  earlier  editions  (and  which  appears 
again  in  the  sixth  as  well  as  the  late  complete  one),  is  replaced  in 
the  third  by  another,  only  used  in  this  edition  ;  an  engraving  on 
steel,  from  an  oil  painting  by  Charles  Hine,  (a  valued  artist- 
tViend  of  Walt  Whitman) — one  of  the  most  striking  and  inter- 
esting likenesses  of  the  poet  that  has  ever  been  made.  The  chief 
thing  to  note  about  this  third  edition  is  that  not  one  word  of  the 


144  ^^^^  Whitmajt. 

poems  which  had  given  such  terrible  offence  in  the  earlier  issues 
is  omitted.  The  autlior  has  not  swerved  a  hair's  breadth  from 
the  line  upon  which  he  set  out.  The  volume  breathes  the  same 
all-generous  spirit  as  the  earlier  issues;  the  same  faith  in  God, 
the  same  love  of  man,  perfect  patience,  and  the  largest  and  most 
absolute  tolerance.  In  this  edition  those  poems  treating  espe- 
cially of  sexual  passions  and  acts  are,  for  the  first  time,  grouped  to- 
gether under  one  name,  "Children  of  Adam"  (written  here  "En- 
fans  d'Adam").  Walt  Whitman  was  advised,  urged,  even  im- 
plored by  his  friends  to  omit  or  at  least  modify  these  pieces. 
An  old  and  intimate  personal  friend,  urging  him  one  day  to  leave 
them  out,  said  to  him,  "  What  in  the  world  do  you  want  to  put 
in  that  stuff  for,  that  nobody  can  read  ?"  He  answered  with  a 
smile,  "  Well,  John,  if  you  need  to  ask  that  question,  it  is  evi- 
dent at  any  rate  that  the  book  was  not  written  for  you." 

In  the  course  of  the  summer  gf  i860,  while  Walt  Whitman 
was  in  Boston,  putting  that  third  edition  through  the  press, 
Emerson  came  to  see  him,  and  presently  said,  "  When  people 
want  to  talk  in  Boston,  they  go  to  the  Common ;  let  us  go 
there."  So  they  went  to  the  Common,  and  Emerson  talked  for 
something  like  two  hours  on  the  subject  of  "  Children  of  Adam." 
He  set  forth  the  impolicy,  the  utter  inadvisability  of  those  poems. 
Walt  Whitman  listened  to  all  he  had  to  say ;  he  did  not  argue 
the  point,  but  when  Emerson  made  an  end,  he  said  quietly,  "My 
mind  is  not  changed ;  I  feel,  if  possible  more  strongly  than  ever^ 
that  those  pieces  should  be  retained."  "Very  well,"  said  Emer- 
son, "  then  let  us  go  to  dinner."  * 

♦  In  *'  The  Critic"  for  December  3d,  1881,  Walt  Whitman  gives  the  following  ^'ccount  of 
the  interview  :  "  Up  and  down  this  breadth  by  Beacon  Street,  between  these  same  old  elms, 
I  walked  for  two  hours,  of  a  bright,  sharp  February  midday  twenfy-one  years  ago,  with 
Emerson,  then  in  his  prime,  keen,  physically  and  morally  magnetic,  armed  at  every  point, 
and  when  he  chose,  wielding  the  emotional  just  as  well  as  the  intellectual.  During  tho'ie 
two  hours  he  was  the  talker,  and  I  the  listener.  It  was  an  argument — statement — iccoii- 
noitring,  review,  attack,  and  pressing  home  (like  an  army  corps  in  order,  artillery,  cavalry, 
infantry),  of  all  that  could  be  said  against  that  part  (and  a  main  part)  in  the  construction  of 
my  poems,  '  Cliildren  of  Adam.'  More  precious  than  gold  to  me  that  dissertation  (I  only 
wish  I  had  it  now  verbatim).  It  afforded  me,  ever  after,  ihis  strange  and  paradoxical  les- 
son; each  point  of  E.'s  statement  was  un.mswerable,  no  judge's  ch.irge  evermne  complete 
or  convincing — 1  could  never  hear  the  points  better  put — and  then  I  felt  down  in  my 
soul  the  dear  and  unmistakable  cunviction  to  disobey  all,  aiid  pursue  my  own  way.    '  What 


History  of  Leave:  of  Grass — (1855-82).  145 

This  third  edition,  which  came  out  early  in  the  summer  of 
i860,  was  the  first  that  had  any  sale  at  all.  There  was  less  out- 
cry about  it  than  about  the  first  and  second.  A  class  of  men 
had  begun  to  appear — a  very  few — who,  having  more  or  less 
absorbed  Leaves  of  Grass,  were  in  a  position  to  hold  in  check  the 
army  of  detractors.  Although  it  could  not  be  said  that  public 
opinion  was  becoming  even  partially  favorable,  still  a  hearing 
was  beginning  to  be  established,  and  here  and  there  both  in 
America  and  England,  individuals  were  rising  up  to  defend  the 
book  and  strike  a  blow  in  its  advocacy.  Just  at  this  time  when 
the  enterprise  looked  encouraging,  the  Secession  War  ruined 
(among  much  else)  the  book-publishing  trade.  Thayer,  Eld- 
ridge  failed,  and  Leaves  of  Grass  was  again  out  of  print.  Soon 
after  (in  1862)  Walt  Whitman  went  to  the  seat  of  war  (see  Speci- 
men Days),  and  poetry  was  forgotten,  or  at  least  laid  aside,  in 
the  vast,  vehement,  all-devouring  interests  and  duties  of  the 
time,  and  the  succeeding  years. 

Lute  in  1865  was  pu  )lished  **  Drum  Taps" — poems  com- 
posed on  battle-fields,  in  hospitals,  or  on  the  march,  among  the 
sights  and  surroundings  of  the  war,  saturated  with  the  spirit  and 
mournful  tragedies  of  that  time,  including  in  a  supplement, 
"When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door-yard  Bloom'd,"  commemora- 
ting the  death  of  President  Lincoln.  Then  in  1S67,  the  war 
being  well  over,  and  the  ordinary  avocations  of  peace  resumed, 
the  poet  (he  had  at  the  time  a  clerkship  in  the  office  of  the 
Attorney-General,  at  Washington)  brought  out  the  fourth  edi- 
tion, including  all  the  poems  written  down  to  that  period.  This 
volume  in  size  and  shape  is  very  similar  to  the  current  edition. 
It  contains  470  pages  and  235  poems.  All  the  old  ones  are  re- 
tained, and  about  80  new  ones  added.  The  title-page  bears  the 
words  "Leaves  of  Grass,  New  York,  1867."  This  fourth  edi- 
tion contains  no  portrait.  It  is  fairly  printed  (from  the  type)  on 
good  paper,  but  is  not  nearly  as  handsome  a  volume  as  the  third 
edition. 

Iiavt  you  to  say,  then,  ti)  such  thin>;s?'  said  E.,  pausing  in  conclusion.  'Only  tli.il  while  I 
t  iii't  answer  tlicni  at  all,  I  feel  more  setlleil  tlian  ever  to  adhere  to  my  own  th'-ory,  and 
cxcini)lify  it,'  was  my  candid  reapou&e.  WliereuiJon  wo  wcnl  and  had  a  good  dinner  at  the 
American  House." 

«3 


146  VVaU  Whitman. 

The  fifth  edition  was  issued  in  1871.  It  consisted  of  one 
good-sized,  good-looking  volume  (384  pages),  and  a  brochure, 
same  paper  and  type,  called  "Passage  to  India"  (120  pages). 
The  total  number  of  poems  in  this  issue  is  263 — all  the  old,  and 
a  few  new  ones,  especially  the  aforesaid  **  Passage  to  India." 
This  edition  was  printed  from  new  plates,  on  thick  white  paper, 
and  is  the  handsomest  edition  published  up  to  that  time.  In  it 
all  the  old  poems  are  carefully  revised.  This  is  known  as  the 
Washington  edition.  I'he  title-page  bears  the  words  "Leaves 
OF  Grass,  Washington,  D.  C,  1871."  This,  like  the  fourth, 
contains  no  portrait.  It  supplied  such  moderate  demand  (mostly 
in  England)  as  existed  during  five  years. 

Early  in  1872  Walt  Whitman  was  invited  by  the  students  of 
Dartmouth  College,  Hanover,  New  Hampshire,  to  deliver  what 
is  called  "the  Commencement  Poem."  He  accepted,  went  on 
there,  had  a  good  time,  and  the  piece  given  was  published  in 
book-form  in  New  York  soon  after  under  the  name  of  "As  a 
Strong  Bird  on  Pinions  Free."  It  had  no  sale  at  all.  (In  the 
present,  1882  edition,  it  is  called  "Thou  Mother  with  thy  Equal 
Brood.") 

In  1876  the  author  printed  the  sixth  edition.  This — for  several 
reasons,  the  most  interesting  and  valuable  of  all — is  in  two  volumes, 
one  called  Leaves  of  Grass  (printed  from  the  same  plates  as  the  cor- 
responding volume  in  the  fifth  edition),  and  the  other,  "Two 
Rivulets."  The  last  named  is  made  up  of  "  Democratic  Vistas," 
"Passage  to  India"  (printed  from  the  plates  used  in  the  fifth 
edition),  and,  along  with  these,  four  collections  of  prose  and 
verse,  called  respectively,  "  Two  Rivulets,"  "  Centennial  Songs, 
1876,"  "As  a  Strong  Bird  on  Pinions  Free,"  and,  in  prose, 
"  Memoranda  During  the  War."  The  total  number  of  pages  is 
734,  and  the  total  number  of  poems  288.  Each  volume  contains 
the  author's  autograph,  and  the  two  books  include  three  portraits. 
It  will  not  be  many  years  before  copies  of  this  Centennial  edition 
will  bring  almost  anything  that  holders  of  them  like  to  ask.  The 
poems  contained  in  it  are  all  included  (with  many  alterations, 
some  omissions,  additions,  etc.)  in  the  1882  issue;  and  most  of 
the  prose  is  included  in  Specimen  Days. 


History  of  Leaves  of  Grass — (1855-82).  147 

The  next  (seventh)  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass  x?,  that  of  James 
R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  Boston,  i8Si-'82.  The  text  is  packed  as 
closely  together  as  possible  in  one  volume  of  382  pages,  long 
primer  type,  containing  293  distinct  poems.  A  few  of  the  old 
ones  are  omitted  (generally  for  the  reason  that  what  they  con- 
tained was  expressed  elsewhere),  in  some  instances  two  are  run 
into  one,  and  quite  a  number  of  new  pieces  added.  The  text 
throughout  has  been  thoroughly  revised,  hundreds  of  sliglit 
alterations  have  been  made,  ixi  many  places  words  and  lines 
omitted,  and  as  frequently,  in  other  places,  words  and  lines 
added.  The  arrangement  and  the  punctuation  have  been  mate- 
rially altered  for  the  better,  and  the  poems  are  so  joined  and 
blended  by  slight  alterations  in  the  text  and  by  juxtaposition, 
that  Leaves  of  Grass  now  becomes  a  unit  in  a  sense  it  had  never 
been  before.  The  original  design  of  the  author,  formed  twenty- 
six  years  before,  has  taken  shape,  and  stands  in  this  volume  com- 
pleted. 

It  is  usual  to  speak,  as  I  have  done,  of  the  different  "  edi- 
tions" of  Leaves  of  Grass,  but  this  term,  in  one  sense,  is  scarcely 
correct,  for  an  essential  point  about  the  work  is  not  only  its 
identical  but  its  cumulative  character.  Those  seven  different 
issues  are  simply  successive  expansions  or  growths,  strictly  carry- 
ing out  the  one  idea. 

A  peculiarity  of  Walt  Whitman  has  been  his  careful  attention 
to  the  minutest  details  of  typography  (he  is  a  printer  himself,  be 
it  remembered)  in  all  the  issues  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  and  espe- 
cially in  the  final  one.  Instead  of  sending  on  his  copy  and  re- 
ceiving back  proofs  by  mail,  he  goes  personally  to  Boston,  takes 
a  little  room  in  the  printing  office,  settles  on  the  size  of  page, 
kind  of  type,  how  the  pieces  shall  run  on,  etc.  After  which,  for 
six  or  seven  weeks,  every  line  is  vigilantly  scanned  ;  every  day 
for  two  or  three  hours  he  is  at  Rand  &  Avery's  (the  printing 
office  and  foundry)  reading  proofs,  sometimes  to  the  third  and 
fourth  revision.  On  the  completion  of  the  plates,  he  remarked 
that  if  there  was  anything  amiss  in  the  material  body  of  the  work, 
it  should  be  charged  to  him  equallj/  with  its  spiritual  sins,  for  he 
had  had  his  own  way  about  it  all. 


148  WaU  Whitman. 

The  subsequent  withdrawal  of  the  firm  of  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co. 
from  publishing  that  seventh  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass  makes 
it  necessary  to  relate  somewhat  in  detail  both  how  they  came  to 
be,  and  how,  in  a  short  five  or  six  months,  they  ceased  to  be, 
such  publishers.  In  May,  18S1,  J.  R.  Osgood  wrote  to  Walt 
Whitman,  asking  if  he  had  In  hand  and  was  disposed  to  bring 
out  a  new  and  complete  edition  of  his  poetic  works.  Walt  Whit- 
man wrote  back  that  such  an  enterprise  was  contemplated  by  him, 
but  before  entering  upon  any  negotiation,  it  needed  to  be  dis- 
tinctly understood  that  not  a  piece  or  line  of  the  old  text  was 
intended  by  him  to  be  left  out ;  this  was  an  absolute  pre-requisite. 
Osgood  &  Co,  then  wrote  asking  if  they  could  see  the  copy. 
Walt  Whitman  sent  it  immediately.  Osgood  &  Co.  wrote  back 
formally  offering  to  publish,  and  mentioning  terms,  which  were 
fixed  at  a  royalty  of  twenty-five  cents  on  every  two-dollar  copy 
sold.  The  contract  being  made,  the  poet  went  on  to  Boston, 
and  was  there  two  months  (September  and  October,  1881)  en- 
gaged in  seeing  the  poems  properly  set  up.  This  seventh  and 
completed  Leaves  of  Grass  was  published  latter  part  of  Novem- 
ber, 1881.  The  sale  commenced  fairly.  Several  hundred  copies 
went  to  London,  and  Walt  Whitman's  royalty  from  the  winter 
and  early  spring  issues  amounted  to  nearly  five  hundred  dollars. 

March  ist,  1882,  Oliver  Stevens,  Boston  District  Attorney 
(under  instructions  from  Mr.  Marston,  State  Attorney-General, 
see  fiirther  on),  sends  an  official  letter*  to  Osgood  &  Co.  that  he 
intends  to  institute  suit  against  Leaves  of  Grass  and  for  its  sup- 
pression, under  the  statutes  regarding  obscene  literature.  A  list 
of  pieces  and  passages  is  soon  after  officially  specified,  and  it  is 

*  Here  is  this  curious  document : 

Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts, 

District  Attorney's  OlTice, 
Boston,  24  Court  House,  March  jst,  jSSj. 
Messrs.  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co. 

Centlewftt, — Our  attention  has  been  officially  dir  cted  to  a  certain  book,  entitled  Leaves 
0/ Crrass,  Wall  Whitman,  publislied  by  you.  We  are  of  the  opinion  that  tliis  book  is  such 
a  book  as  brings  it  within  the  provisions  of  the  public  statutes  respecting  obscene  literature, 
and  suKRest  the  propriety  of  withdrawing  the  same  from  circulation,  and  suppressing  the 
edition  thereof;  otherwise  the  coniplainls  which  are  proposed  to  be  made  will  have  to  be  cu- 
tertuined.  I  am,  yours  truly, 

(Signed)  Ulivkh  Stbvbns,  District  Attorney, 


The  Attempted  Official  Suppression.  149 

intimated  thnt  upon  these  being  erased  and  left  out,  the  publica- 
tion may  continue.     March  21st,  Osgood  &  Co.  write  Walt  Whit- 
man, forwarding  this  list,*  and  asking  if  the  words,  lines,  and 
pieces  specified  could  be  left  out.     March  23d,  Walt  Whitman 
writes  Osgood  &  Co.,  '*  The  list,  whole  and  several,  is  rejected 
"by  me,  and  will  not  be  thought  of  under  any  circumstances." 
A  week  afterwards,  Osgood  &  Co.  write  Walt  Whitman,  "The 
official  mind  has  declared  it  will  be  satisfied  if  the  pieces  '  To 
a  Common  Prostitute  '  and  '  A  Woman  Waits  for  Me '  are  left 
out,"  and  that  those  two  so  left  out,  the  book  can  then  go  on 
unmolested.     (Osgood  &  Co.  add  that  they  have  susjiended  the 
publication  and  sales,  and  that  orders  are  waiting.)     Walt  Whit- 
man peremptorily  rejects  the  proposal  to  leave  out  the  two  pieces. 
Osgood  &  Co.  (April  13th,  1882)  courteously  but  decidedly  write 
that  they  cannot  afford  to  be  drawn  into  any  suit  of  the  kind 
threatened  by  the  Boston  officials,  but   must  give  up  Leav.  ■•  of 
Grass,  and  that  they  are  ready  to  turn  over  the   plates  to  Walt 
Whitman's  purchase,  (these  plates  were  so  consigned  to  him,  and 
no  cash  royalty  ever  paid),  adding,  "  We  feel  it  right  to  say,  that 
it  is  not  we  who  have  fixed  inflexible  conditions  under  which  this 
matter  could  be  decided — those  conditions  have  been  fixed  by 
yourself."     (There  is  an  interior  history  of  the  persons  and  their 
animus  behind  the  scenes,  in  Boston,  who  egged  on  Messrs.  Mars- 
ton  and  Stevens,  which  has  not  yet  come  to  the  light,  but  may, 
some  day.) 

*  The  following  is  the  list  referred  to — (same  paging  as  in  the  1882  edition) : 

PAGE  LINES  PAGE  LINES 

31,  15th  and  i6lh.  88,  89,  "  A  Woman  Waits  for  Me." 

3a,  igth  to  22d  (inclusive).  90,  gi,  Whole  of  90  and  91,  to  line  11  (inclu- 

37,  14th  and  I  sth.  sive). 

48,  2(jth  to  29th  (inclusive).  94,         First  six  lines  and  half  of  7th  to  words 

49,  nth  to  20th  (inclusive).  *'  indecent  calls"  (inclusive). 
52,  'J'lie  reniaiiuier  of  paragraph  twenty-  216,       "  The  Dalliance  of  the  Kagles." 

ciHht,  l)ci;inning  at  the  jzlh  line.  266,       21st  and  22d. 

59,        nth  and  i2lh.  299.  3°o.  "  1"  »  Common  Prostitute." 

66,        15th  and  i6lh.  3o3i        2d  and  <d. 

79,  2ist  and  22d.  3aS>        The  remainder  of  the  4th  line  from 

80,  Liitire  passage  from  14th  line,  ending  bottom,  beginning  with  words  "  he 

with    words    "And    you,  stalwart  with  his  palm." 

loins,"  on  page  81.  33'.        9<1>  ■'>"J  '"''!■ 

84,        ist  to  7th  (inclusive).  355.        13th  to  17th  (inclusive). 

87,        i3tli  to  28ih  (inclusive). 


150  IVa/i  Whitman. 

After  such  fiain  narration  of  the  facts,  perhaps  the  keenest 
and  most  deserved  comment  upon  this  whole  transaction  (it  was 
fitting  that  the  one  who  attended  to  Hon.  Mr.  Harlan  in  1865-6 
should  also  sum  up  the  Marston-Stevens-Osgood  affair  in  1882) 
is  a  letter  by  William  D.  O'Connor,  printed  in  the  *'  New  York 
Tribune"  of  May  25th,  1882,  from  which  the  following  are  ex- 
tracts : 

If  it  were  not  for  unduly  trenching  upon  your  space,  T  would  like  to  show 
you  the  passages  which  the  State  District-Attorney  pronounced  obscene,  and 
demanded  expurgated.  The  list  furnished  by  this  holy  and  intelligent  man 
is  before  me,  and  has  twenty-two  spe  nfications.  Four  of  the  passages 
specified  relate  to  the  poet's  democratic  theory  of  the  intrinsic  sacredness 
and  nobility  of  the  entire  human  physiology — identical  with  the  famous 
declaration  of  Novalis  that  the  body  is  the  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost;  and 
ii"-  live,  specially  in  one  or  two  instances,  a  rapt  celebration  of  the  acts  and 
organs  of  chaste  love.  Another  passage  describes  the  identification  through 
sympathy  of  one's  self  with  lawless  or  low-down  persons.  A  sixth  passage 
under  ban  is  devoted  to  the  majestic  annunciation  of  woman  as  the  matrix  of 
the  generations — the  doctrine  that  her  greatness  is  the  mould  and  condition 
of  all  the  greatness  of  man.  Another  proscribed  passage  consists  of  ten  pic- 
torial lines,  worthy  of  /Eschylus,  in  which  the  poet  describes  the  grand  and 
terrible  dalliance  of  two  eagles,  high  aloft  in  the  bright  air,  above  a  river  road. 
A  seventh  passage  specially  reriuired  to  be  expunged  is  the  poem  nobly  en 
titled  "  To  a  Common  Prostitute  " — I  say  nobly,  because  even  the  large  sense 
of  the  composition  is  enlarged  by  its  title.  The  piece  is  simply  indicative  of 
the  attitude  of  ideal  humanity  in  this  age  toward  even  the  lowest  or  most  de- 
graded, and  is  conceived  throughout  in  the  sublime  spirit  of  our  limes,  whose 
theory  abandons  no  one  nor  anything  to  loss  or  ruin,  recognizing  amelioration 
as  the  law  of  laws,  and  good  as  the  final  destiny  of  all.  It  is  incredible  that 
a  poem  whose  whole  staple,  on  the  face  of  it,  is  to  assure  the  unfortunate 
Magdalen  that  not  until  Nature  excludes  her  shall  she  be  excluded  from  con- 
sideration and  sympathy,  and  to  promise  her  the  redemption  of  the  superior 
life — whose  entire  thesis  is  plainly  and  undeniably  supreme  charity  and  faith 
in  the  human  ascension — should  appear  to  any  mind  as  an  expression  of 
obscenity.  However,  as  Swedenborg  reminds  us,  lo  (he  devils  perfumes  are 
stinks.  The  eighth  quarry  of  the  State  District- Attorney  is  the  piece  entitled, 
"A  Woman  Waits  for  Me."  If  the  defence  of  this  poem  is  to  carry  with  it 
dishonor,  I  court  that  dishonor.  Nothing  that  the  poet  has  ever  written, 
cither  in  signification  or  in  splendid  oratorio  music,  has  more  the  character  of 
a  sanctus  ;  nothing  in  modern  literature  is  loftier  and  holier.  Beginning  with 
an  inspired  declaration  of  the  absolute  conditioning  power  of  sex — a  declara- 


The  Attempted  Official  Suppression.  151 

tion  as  simply  true  as  sublime — the  poet,  using  sexual  imagery,  as  Isaiah  and 
l'!/L'kiel,  as  all  tbc  proplicts,  all  the  great  Oriental  poets,  have  used  it  before 
him,  continues  his  dithyramb  in  exalted  affirmation  of  the  vital  procreative 
effects  of  his  book  upon  the  women,  that  is  to  say  upon  the  future  of  America. 
And  this  glorious  conviction  of  a  lofty  mission — the  consciousness,  in  one  form 
or  another,  of  every  philosopher,  every  apostle,  every  poet  who  has  worked 
his  thought  for  the  human  advancement — the  faith  and  the  consolation  of 
every  sower  of  the  light  who  has  looked  beyond  the  hounding  hatreds  of  the 
present  to  the  next  ages — the  eminently  pure,  the  eminently  enlightened,  the 
supereminently  judicial  Boston  District-Attorney  considers  obscene!  The 
remaining  fourteen  passages  marked  by  his  condemnation  I  need  not  discuss,  as 
they  are  all  includetl  in  the  first  edition  of  the  work  indorsed  by  Emerson. 

As  for  the  part  taken  by  Messrs.  Osgood  &  Company  in  this  shameful 
tran^action,  what  is  said  should  have  the  conciseness  of  a  brand.  It  was  no 
new  book  they  had  undertaken  to  jiublish — it  had  been  the  talk  of  two  worlds 
for  over  a  quarter  of  a  century.  They  knew  its  noble  rejnite  in  the  highest 
quarters,  and  they  also  knew  what  shadows  might  be  cast  upon  it  by  booby 
bigotry,  by  foul  sour  prudery  mincing  as  purity,  or  by  rotten  carnality  in  its 
hy]i(>crite  mask  of  virtue.  Knowing  all  this,  facing  possible  consequences  in 
their  agreement  to  publish  witliout  expurgation,  and  having  voluntarily  sought 
the  i)ul)lication  of  the  volume,  I  say  it  was  their  duty  as  gentlemen  to  stand 
by  the  bargain  they  had  solicited,  and  it  was  no  less  their  interest  as  men  of 
business  to  advertise  the  State-Attorney's  ridiculous  menace  in  the  boldest 
type  their  printers  could  furnish,  and  bid  hnn  come  on  with  his  prosecution! 
Time  enough  to  give  in  wdien  Sidney  Bartlctt  had  failed  to  make  a  Massa- 
chusetts jury  see  that  in  literature  we  must  allow  free  expressions  if  we  are 
going  to  have  free  exjiression  ; — time  enough  to  own  defeat  when  Sidney 
IJartlett  or  Charles  O'Conor  failed  to  make  plain,  as  either  would  not  have 
failed  to  make  plain  to  even  Mr.  Oliver  Stevens's  comprehension,  the  difference 
between  Biblical  courage  of  language  and  intrinsic  intellectual  impurity.  But 
Messrs.  Osgood  &  Comi)any  leave  their  Pavia  unfought,  and  lose  everything, 
incluiling  honor.  They  might  have  braced  themselves  with  the  remembrance 
of  Woodfall,  standing  prosecution  heaped  on  prosecution,  in  his  dark  fidelity 
to  Junius.  They  might  have  gathered  grit  by  trying  to  imagine  John  Murray 
flinching  from  the  publication  of  Byron.  On  the  contrary,  shaking  in  abject 
cowardice  at  the  empty  threat  of  this  legal  bully,  they  meanly  break  their 
cuiuiact  with  the  author,  abandon  the  book  they  had  volunteered  to  issue,  and 
drop  from  the  ranks  of  great  publishers  into  the  category  of  hucksters  whose 
bu-iiie?,s  cannot  afford  a  conscience. 

It  only  remains  to  point  the  moral  and  adorn  the  tale  with  the  name  of  the 
Bo'ton  I)i>trictAtt(jrney.  I  have  called  the  transaction  in  which  he  a])pears 
as  the  ]irime  mover  shameful,  but  the  word  is  limp  and  colorless  in  its  appli- 
taliuii  to  such  an  outrage  upon  the  liberty  of  thought  as  he  has  committed. 


152  JV(i/l  llliitiuau. 

The  sense  of  it  ma'<es  cv^ry  fil)re  of  one's  heing  seem  interknitted  with  light- 
niiig.  On  such  a  siijjjuct  no  tliinkin^  man  or  woman  in  such  a  country  as 
ours  will  reflect  with  cold  composure.  The  action  of  this  lawyer  constitutes 
a  reef  which  threatens  with  shipwreck  every  great  book  of  every  great  author, 
from  Aristophanes  to  Moliere,  from  /F,schylus  to  Victor  Hugo;  and  the  drop 
of  blood  that  is  calm  in  view  of  such  an  outrage  proclaims  us  bastard  to  the 
lineage  of  the  learned  and  the  brave!  To-day  Oliver  Stevens  has  become 
the  peril  of  Shakespeare.  He  knows  well,  no  one  knows  it  better,  that  under 
Iiis  construction  of  the  statutes  neither  Shakespeare  nor  the  Bible  could  be 
circulated,  and  no  one  better  knows  than  he  that  neither  of  those  books  is 
oliscene.  He  knows  well,  Emerson  and  a  host  of  scholars  and  men  of  letters 
in  both  continents  bearing  witness,  that  Walt  Whitman's  book  is  no  more 
within  the  meaning  of  the  statutes  than  Shakespeare  or  the  Bible,  but  he  also 
knows  that  the  charge  he  has  brouc;ht  against  the  one  lies  with  at  least  equal 
force  against  the  olhers,  and  if  he  does  not  continue  his  raid  upon  the  great  lit- 
erature, it  is  only  because  his  courage  is  not  equal  to  his  logic.  Even  his 
bolder  and  brassier  ally  in  this  holy  war,  Mr.  Anthony  Comstock, — even  he 
tempers  valor  with  discretion  for  the  nonce,  and  says  he  "  will  not  prosecute 
the  publishers  of  the  classics,  unless  they  specially  advertise  them"!  There 
are  contingencies,  it  seems,  in  which  the  great  works  of  the  human  mind  will 
be  brought  under  the  operation  of  "  the  statutes  against  obscene  literature." 
Who  knows,  since  fortune  favors  the  brave  and  enterprising,  but  that  we  may 
yet,  step  by  stop,  succeed  in  hrin^^ing  the  Fourteenth  century  into  the  Nine- 
teenth, and  reerect  Montfaucon — that  hideous  edifice  of  scaffolds  reared  by 
Philippe  le  Bel,  where  the  blackened  corpse  of  Glanus  swung  beside  the 
carcass  of  the  regicide  for  having  translated  Plato,  and  where  Peter  Albin 
dangled  gibbeted  beside  the  roblier  for  having  published  Virgil?  If  this  fond 
prospect  is  still  somewhat  distant,  it  is  only,  it  seems,  because  Mr.  Anthony 
Comstock  lets  his  I  dare  not  wait  upon  I  would,  and  delays  the  initial  step 
until  the  classics  are  "specially"  advertised.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Oliver  Stevens 
also  waits  for  fresh  relays  of  courage,  and  as  yet  only  ventures  to  attempt  to 
crush  Walt  Whitman.  For  that  ai  t  of  daring  he  shall  reap  the  full  harvest 
of  reward.  We  will  sec  whether  in  this  country  and  in  this  century  he  can 
suppress  by  law  the  work  of  a  man  of  genius,  and  fail  of  his  proper  recom- 
pon-e.  He  has  arrested  in  Massachusetts  the  superb  book  which  is  the  chief 
literary  glory  of  our  country  in  the  capitals  of  Europe — the  book  of  the  good 
gray  nurse  who  nourished  the  woumled  and  tended  many  a  dying  soldier 
through  our  years  of  war — and  for  that  valiant  action  I  jiromise  Mr.  Stevens 
his  meed  of  immortal  remembrance.  He  has  the  solemn  comfort  of  having 
been  unknown  yesterday ;  I  can  offer  him  the  glorious  assurance  that  he  will 
not  lie  forgotten  tomorrow. 

The    Marston-Stevens-Osgood    assault,   however,    instead  of 


His  Completed  Wofks,  i882-'83.  153 

bringing  about  the  result  intended  (a  suppression  of  Leaves  of 
Grass),  immediately  produced  quite  the  contrary  effect.  The 
book  was  taken  up  by  a  Philadelphia  house,  Rees  Welsh  &  Co., 
to  whose  miscellaneous  business  David  McKay  succeeded,  and 
the  latter  is  now  publisher  both  of  the  completed  poems,  and  of 
the  late  nrose  work.  Specimen  Days.  Of  Leaves  of  Grass  the 
first  Philadelphia  edition  (without  the  omission  of  a  line  or 
word)  was  ready  in  the  latter  part  of  September,  1882,  and  all 
sold  in  one  day.  And  there  has  been  quite  a  general  and  steady 
sale  since. 

It  is  this  issue,  comprehending  all,  that  I  allude  to  throughout 
the  present  volume  as  the  completed  1882  (or  i882-'83)  edition. 
It  includes  several  touches  and  additions,  minor  but  significant, 
not  in  any  previous  issue. 


CHAPTER  ir. 

ANALYSIS  OF  THE  POEMS,  ETC. 

Although,  as  already  stated,  Walt  Whitman  has  written  much 
else,  yet  the  two  now  published  volumes,  1 882-' 83,  the  one  of 
verse.  Leaves  of  Grass,  and  the  other  of  prose,  Specimen  Days 
and  Collect,  may  be  considered  (at  any  rate  so  far)  as  containing 
all  that  he  cares  to  preserve.  For  the  purpose  of  comment,  the 
prose  writings  may  be  divided  into,  First,  the  early  tales  and 
sketches  in  the  Appendix.  Secondly,  the  section  of  G?//!?^/ which 
includes  several  pieces  of  the  highest  excellence,  entitling  the 
author  to  take  equal  rank  with  the  greatest  masters  of  prose  com- 
position. These  essays — especially  **  Democratic  Vistas,"  "Ori- 
gins of  Attempted  Secession,"  **  Preface  to  1855  Issue  oi  Leaves 
of  Grass^^  "Poetry  To-day  in  America" — are  not  only  of  the 
greatest  value  inherently  in  themselves,  but  as  presenting  the 
prose,  intellectual,  discriminating,  common-sense  side  of  Ameri- 
can Democracy,  of  which  Leaves  of  Grass  exhibits  the  poetical 
aspect.  They  thus  counterpart  one  another,  and  the  prose  essays 
show  (what  if  we  read  the  poetry  only  we  might  be  inclined  to 
doubt)  that  the  man  who  saw  the  future  glories  of  American  civ- 
ilization which  are  set  forth  in  the  poetic  work,  saw  also,  and  fully 
saw,  the  mean  and  threatening  facts  which  are  visible  to  ordinary 
men  in  the  present,  and  which  they  (many  of  them)  think  is  all 
there  is  to  see.  Thirdly,  the  first  half,  or  third,  of  Specimen 
Days  (formerly  called  **  Memoranda  during  the  War  ")  is,  as  far 
as  I  know,  by  far  the  best  work  yet  written  from  which  to  get  an 
idea  of  the  Secession  struggle  of  i860-' 65 — who  were  engaged 
in  it,  what  they  actually  did,  and  how  they  felt  and  suffered.  Its 
want  of  literary  form  makes  it  the  more  valuable.  Had  the  author 
from  his  notes  distilled  a  finished  work,  he  must  inevitably  have 
included  coloring  and  shading  from  his  own  after-feelings  and 
(»54) 


His  Poetic  and  Prose  Lessons.  155 

reflections ;  but  as  actually  jotted  down  on  the  battle-fields  and 
in  the  hospitals,  surrounded  by  the  events,  scenes,  persons 
depicted,  it  is  clearly  the  reproduction  of  living  incidents  under 
the  direct  observation  of  the  writer,  absolutely  truthful  and  una- 
dorned. Fourthly,  the  last  one  hundred  and  twenty  pages  of 
Specimen  Days  stands  in  a  category  by  itself;  its  correct  name 
taken  alone  would  be  "The  Diary  of  an  Invalid,"  and  it  is  as 
such  that  it  has  its  extraordinary  and  unique  value.  As  Leaves 
of  Grass  is,  from  one  point  of  view,  a  picture  of  perfect  ideal 
health,  so  may  this  section  of  Specimen  Days  be  received  as  the 
ideal  (though  entirely  real)  picture  of  sickness.  It  will  remain 
forever  a  record  of  how  a  heroic  soul  faced  and  without  dejection 
quietly  and  bravely  passed  through  continued  grief,  poverty,  the 
imminency  of  death,  and  great  suffering  both  of  mind  and  body, 
lasting  for  years.  Never  before  from  amid  such  circumstances 
came  such  a  voice.  Leaves  of  Grass  teaches  us  to  strive,  to  aspire, 
and  to  dare  ;  Specimen  Days  an  equally  good  lesson,  that  of  forti- 
tude, cheerfulness,  and  even  joyousness  in  defiance  (though  not 
in  a  spirit  of  defiance)  of  all  and  any  ills. 

Lastly  comes  Leaves  of  Grass,  the  real  work  of  the  author's 
life — or  from  another  (and  more  correct)  point  of  view  the  image 
of  his  real  work,  which  was  his  life  itself.  After  the  long  period 
of  its  own  and  its  author's  growth,  we  have  it  at  last  in  the  1882 
-'83  edition,  completed  as  conceived  twenty-six  years  ago.  Dur- 
ing that  time  every  line  has  been  pondered  again  and  again  with 
the  greatest  care.  Though  the  result  of  spontaneity  and  spiritual 
impulse,  and  invariably  started  thence,  the  file  has  in  no  wise 
been  forgotten.  Every  word  and  expression  found  not  to  come 
up  to  the  standard  has  been  cut  out.  The  new  material  as  pre- 
pared has  been  fitted  into  its  place ;  the  old,  from  time  to  time, 
torn  down  and  re-arranged.  Now  it  appears  before  us,  perfected, 
like  some  grand  cathedral  th,.t  through  many  years  or  intervals 
has  grown  and  grown  until  the  original  conception  and  full  de- 
sign of  the  architect  stand  forth. 

In  examining  this  book,  the  first  thing  that  presents  itself  for 
remark  is  its  name,  by  no  means  the  least  significant  part.    It 


156  Wa/i  Whitiiian. 

would  indeed  be  impossible  to  select  for  the  volume  a  more  per- 
fect title.  Properly  understood,  the  words  express  what  the  book 
contains  and  is.  Like  the  grass,  while  old  as  creation,  it  is 
modern,  fresh,  universal,  spontaneous,  not  following  forms,  taking 
its  own  form,  perfectly  free  and  unconstrained,  common  as  the 
commonest  things,  yet  its  meaning  inexhaustible  by  the  greatest 
intellect,  full  of  life  itself,  and  capable  of  entering  into  and 
nourishing  other  lives,  growing  in  the  sunshine  (/.  e.,  in  the  full, 
broad  light  of  science),  perfectly  open  and  simple,  yet  having 
meanings  underneath  ;  always  young,  pure,  delicate  and  beauti- 
ful to  those  who  have  hearts  and  eyes  to  feel  and  see,  but  coarse, 
insignificant  and  worthless  to  those  who  live  more  in  the  artificial, 
(parlors,  pictures,  traditions,  books,  dress,  jewels,  laces,  music, 
decorations,  money,  gentility),  than  in  the  natural,  (the  naked  and 
rude  earth,  the  fresh  air,  the  calm  or  stormy  sea,  men,  women, 
children,  birds,  animals,  woods,  fields,  and  the  like). 

I  might  say  here  a  preparatory  word  or  two  about  the  absence 
of  ordinary  rhyme  or  tune  in  Walt  Whitman's  work.  The  ques- 
tion cannot  be  treated  without  a  long  statement,  and  many  pre- 
mises. Readers  used  to  the  exquisite  verbal  melody  of  Tennyson 
and  Longfellow  may  well  wince  at  first  entering  on  Leaves  of 
Grass.  So  does  the  invalid  or  even  well  person  used  to  artifi- 
cial warmth  and  softness  indoors,  wince  at  the  sea,  and  gale,  and 
mountain  steeps.  But  the  rich,  broad,  rugged  rhythm  and  inimi- 
table interior  music  of  Leaves  of  G/-ass  need  not  be  argued  for 
or  defended  to  any  real  tone-artist.  It  has  already  been  told 
how,  during  the  gestation  of  the  poems,  the  author  was  saturated 
for  years  with  the  rendering  by  the  best  vocalists  and  performers 
of  the  best  operas  and  oratorios.  Here  is  further  testimony  on 
this  point,  from  a  lady,  a  musician  and  art-writer,  Mrs.  Fanny 
Raymond  Ritter,  wife  of  Music-Professor  Ritter  of  Vassar  Col- 
lege: 

Those  readers  who  possess  a  musical  mind  cannot  fail  to  have  been  struck 
by  a  peculiar  characteristic  of  some  of  Whitman's  grandest  poems.  It  is  ap- 
parently, bat  only  superficially,  a  contradiction.  A  fault  that  critics  have  most 
insisted  upon  in  his  poetry  is  its  independence  of,  or  contempt  for,  the  canons 
of  musico-poetical  art,  in  its  intermittent,  irregular  structure  and  flow.     Yet  the 


His  Rhythmic  Interior.  157 

characteristic  alluded  to  wliich  always  impressed  me  as  inherent  in  these — 
especially  in  some  of  the  Pindaric  "  Drum-Taps  " — was  a  sense  of  strong  rhyth- 
mical, pulsiny,  musical  power.  I  had  always  accounted  to  myself  for  this 
contradiction,  because  I,  of  course,  supposed  the  poet's  nature  to  be  a  large 
one,  including  manj  opposite  qualities;  and  that  as  it  is  impossible  to  con- 
ceive the  Universe  devoid  of  those  divinely  mu.^ical  forces,  Time,  Movement, 
Order,  a  great  poet's  mind  could  not  be  thought  of  as  an  imperfect,  one-siiled 
one,  devoid  of  any  comprehension  of  or  feeling  for  musical  art.  I  knew,  too, 
that  Whitman  was  a  sincere  lover  of  art,  though  not  practically  formative  in 
any  other  art  than  poetry.  Therefore,  on  a  certain  memorable  Olympian  day 
at  the  Ritter-house,  when  Whitman  and  laurroughs  visited  us  together,  I  told 
Whitman  of  my  belief  in  the  presence  of  an  overwhelming  musical  pulse, 
behind  an  apparent  absence  of  musical  form  in  his  poems.  He  answered 
with  as  much  sincerity  as  geniality,  that  it  would  indeed  be  strange  if  there 
were  no  music  at  the  heart  of  his  poems,  for  more  of  these  were  actually  in- 
spired by  music  than  he  himself  could  remember.  Moods  awakened  by  music 
in  the  streets,  the  theatre,  and  in  private,  had  originated  poems  apparently  far 
removed  in  feeling  from  the  scenes  and  feelings  of  the  moment.  But  above 
all,  he  said,  while  he  was  yet  brooding  over  poems  still  to  come,  he  was 
touched  and  inspired  by  the  glorious,  golden,  soul-smiting  voice  of  the  greatest 
of  Italian  contralto  singers.  Marietta  Alboni.  Her  mellow,  powerful,  delicate 
tones,  so  heartfelt  in  their  expression,  so  spontaneous  in  their  utterance,  had 
deeply  penetrated  his  spirit,  and  never,  as  when  subsequently  writing  of  the 
mocking-bird  or  any  other  bird-song,  on  a  fragrant,  moonlit  summer  night, 
had  he  been  able  to  free  himself  from  the  recollection  of  the  deep  emotion 
that  had  inspired  and  affected  him  while  he  listened  to  the  singing  of  Marietta 
Alboni. 

The  volume  (final  edition  1 882-' 83)  opens  with  ten  pages  of 
short  poems  called  "Inscriptions,"  some  of  which  were  written 
after  the  body  of  the  work,  and  are  reflections  upon  its  intention 
and  meaning.  They  cannot  be  understood  until  the  book  itself 
has  been  studied,  and  its  scope  and  power  more  or  less  realized. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  one  of  them  : 

Shut  not  your  dooi's  to  me,  proud  libraries, 

For  that  which  was  lacking  on  all  your  well-fiU'd  shelves,  yet  needed  most,  I 

bring. 
Forth  from  the  war  emerging,  a  book  I  have  made, 
The  words  of  my  book  nothing,  the  drift  of  it  everything, 
A  book  separate,  not  link'd  with  the  rest,  nor  felt  by  the  intellect. 
But  you,  ye  untold  latencies,  will  thrill  to  every  page. 


158  IVa/t  Whitman. 

And  here  another : 

Lo,  the  unbounded  sea, 

On  its  breast  a  ship  starting,  spreading  all  sails,  carrying  even  her  moonsails; 

The  pennant  is  flying  aloft  as  she  speeds,  she  speeds  so  stately — below  emulous 

waves  press  forward, 
They  surround  the  ship  with  shining  curving  motions  and  foam. 

The  first  of  these,  I  suppose,  could  not  be  in  any  degree  ex- 
plained to  a  person  who  knew  nothing  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  The 
second  admits  of  a  certain  degree  of  explanation  which,  however, 
would  have  to  be  taken  on  trust  by  such  a  person.  The  ship  is 
the  book,  the  ocean  is  the  human  mind.  The  large  ship,  with  all 
sails  set,  starts  on  her  voyage  ;  as  she  presses  through  the  water, 
the  waves  (the  resistances  the  book  mef '^>)  roll  from  her  bows 
and  down  her  sides.  The  angry,  hostile  criticisms  and  clamors 
are  the  bubbles  of  foam  in  the  wake. 

The  first  poem  of  any  length,  "Starting  from  Paumanok," 
appeared  first  in  the  third  (i860)  edition,  though  it  was  written 
in  1856,  immediately  after  the  second  (1856)  edition  was  pub- 
lished. It  is  an  introduction  or  overture.  Iii  it  the  author  sets 
forth  what  he  is  going  to  do.  He  says  he  intends  to  celebrate 
man's  soul  and  his  body — to  drop  in  the  soil  of  the  general 
human  character  the  germs  of  a  greater  religion  than  has  hitherto 
appeared  upon  the  earth.  He  says  he  will  sing  the  song  of  com- 
panionship, and  write  the  evangel-poem  of  comrades  and  of  love. 
Referring  to  "  Children  of  Adam,"  he  says  : 

And  sexual  organs  and  acts !  do  you  concentrate  in  me — for  I  am  determin'd 
to  tell  you  with  courageous  clear  voice  to  prove  you  illustrious. 

And  toward  the  end  of  the  poem,  as  a  final  admonition,  he  says 
to  the  reader: 

For  your  life  adhere  to  me; 

(I  may  have  to  he  persuaded  many  times  before  I  consent  to  give  myself 

really  to  you — but  what  of  that  ? 
Must  not  Nature  be  persuaded  many  times?) 

No  dainty  dolce  afiettuoso  I ; 

Bearded,  sun-burnt,  gray-neck'd,  forbiddiog,  I  have  arrived, 
To  be  wrestled  will;  as  I  pass  for  the  solid  prizes  of  the  universe, 
For  such  1  afford  whoever  can  persevere  to  win  them. 


His  Central  Poem.  159 

The  stress  of  the  book  opens  with  the  poem  (hitherto  named 
"Walt  Whitman,"  now)  "Song  of  Myself,"  the  largest  and  most 
important  that  the  author  has  produced,  and  perhaps  the  most 
important  poem  that  has  so  far  been  written  at  any  time,  in  any 
language.  Its  magnitude,  its  depth  and  fulness  of  meaning, 
make  it  difficult,  indeed  impossible,  to  comment  satisfactorily 
upon.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  a  celebration  or  glorification  of 
Walt  Whitman,  of  his  body,  and  of  his  mind  and  soul,  with  all 
their  functions  and  attributes — and  then,  by  a  subtle  but  inevita- 
ble implication,  it  becomes  equally  a  son'/  of  exultation,  as  sung 
by  any  and  every  individual,  man  or  woman,  upon  the  beauty 
and  perfection  of  his  or  her  body  and  spirit,  the  material  part 
being  treated  as  equally  divine  with  the  immaterial  part,  and  the 
immaterial  part  as  equally  real  and  godlike  with  the  material. 
Beyond  this  it  has  a  third  sense,  in  which  it  is  the  chant  of  cos- 
mical  man  (the  etre  supreme  of  Comte) — of  the  vhole  race  con- 
sidered as  one  immense  and  immortal  being.  From  a  fourth 
point  of  view  it  is  a  most  sublime  hymn  of  glorification  of  exter- 
nal Nature.  The  way  these  different  senses  lie  in  some  passages 
one  behind  the  other,  and  are  in  others  inextricably  blended 
together,  defies  comment.  But  beyond  all,  the  chief  difficulty 
in  criticising  this,  as  all  other  poems  in  Leaves  of  Grass,  is  that 
the  ideas  expressed  are  of  scarcely  any  value  or  importance  com- 
pared with  the  passion,  the  never-flagging  emotion,  which  is  in 
every  line,  almost  in  every  word,  and  which  cannot  be  set  forth 
or  even  touched  by  commentary.  If,  again,  the  reviewer  tries 
to  impress  the  deeper  meaning  upon  his  reader  by  quoting  pas- 
sages, he  finds  that  this  expedient  is  equally  futile,  because  no  ex- 
tract will  make  upon  the  reader  an  impression  at  all  correspond- 
ing to  that  produced  by  the  same  lines  upon  a  person  to  whom 
the  whole  poem  is  familiar.  The  ■'  Song  of  Myself"  is  not  only 
a  celebration  of  man  (any  man),  his  soul  and  body,  but  it  is  a 
celebration  of  everything  else  as  well  (necessarily  so,  since,  as 
Walt  Whitman  expresses  it,  "Objects  gross  and  the  unseen  soul 
are  one  ") — of  the  earth  and  all  there  is  upon  it — of  the  universe, 
and  of  the  Divine  Spirit  that  aiiimates  it — that  is  it.  The  reader 
is  not  merely  told  that  these  things  are  good,  and  persuaded  or 


i6o  IVa/^  Wliitman, 

argued  into  believing  it  (that  has  been  done  a  thousand  times, 
and  is  a  small  matter),  but  he  is  brought  into  contact  with,  and 
absolutely  fused  in  the  living  mind  of  Walt  Whitman,  to  whom 
these  things  are  so,  not  as  a  matter  of  speculation  and  belief,  but 
as  a  matter  of  vital  existence  and  identity  :  and  as  he  reads  the 
poem  (it  may  be  for  the  fifth  or  the  fiftieth  time),  the  state  of 
mind  of  tlie  author  inevitably  (in  some  measure)  passes  over  to 
the  reader,  and  he  practically  becomes  the  author — becomes  the 
person  who  thinks  so,  knows  so,  feels  so.  But,  until  this  point 
is  reached  (and  with  many  readers,  so  far,  it  is  never  reached),  the 
poem  is  necessarily  more  or  less  meaningless,  and  besides  is  dis- 
pleasing from  what  critics  call  its  "egotism,"  a  quality  well 
known  to  the  author,  who  (in  the  first  as  well  as  subsequent  edi- 
tions) says: 

I  know  perfectly  well  my  own  egotism, 

Know  my  omnivorous  lines,  and  must  nut  write  any  less. 

And  would  fetch  you  whoever  you  are  Hush  with  myself. 

When  the  reader  is  brought  "flush  "  with  or  up  to  the  spiritual 
level  of  the  book  (if  this  ever  happens),  he  finds,  as  Walt  Whit- 
man tells  him,  that  it  is  himself  talking  just  as  much  as  the  man 
who  wrote  the  book — that  in  fact  the  'ego"  is  the  reader  fully 
as  much  as  the  writer.  The  poet  speaks  for  himself  in  the  first 
place  of  course,  but  he  speaks  also  just  as  much  for  others,  as  he 
says  : 

It  is  you  talking  just  as  much  as  myself,  I  act  as  the  tongue  of  you, 
Tied  in  your  mouth,  in  mine  it  begins  to  be  loosen'd. 

Then  the  range  is  outdoors  almost  perpetually.  No  critic  of 
the  poems  can  fail  to  notice  the  entire  absence  of  any  book- 
shelf or  easy-chair  character  in  them.  Many  readers  will  con- 
sider it  a  fault ;  at  any  rate  the  pieces,  from  first  to  last,  give  out 
nothing  of  the  atmosphere  of  a  permanent  indoor  home.* 

*  "Poets'  Homes"  for  1879  (Mrs.  Mary  Wager  Fisher)  says:  As  to  Walt  Whitman's 
home,  it  must  be  confessed  tliat  he  has  none,  and  for  many  years  has  had  none  in  the  special 
sense  of  "  home  ;"  neither  has  he  the  usual  library  or  "  den"  for  composition  and  work.  He 
composes  everywhere  — years  a^o,  while  writiiii;  /.ivirrj  0/  Grass,  sometimes  on  the  New 
Vut'k  and  liruoklyu  furrics,  suniutiincb  uii  the  top  of  omnibuses  in  the  roar  of  Broadway,  or 


His  Backgrounds  of  Meaning.  l6l 

One  peculiarity  is  the  indirectness  of  the  language  in  which 
it  is  written.  This  is  at  first  a  serious  obstacle  to  the  comprehen- 
sion of  tiie  poems,  but  after  the  key  has  been  found,  it  adds  mate- 
rially to  the  force  and  vividness  of  expression.  In  places  where 
a  thought  or  fact  is  expressed  in  the  usual  direct  manner,  there 
is  frequently  a  second  and  even  a  third  meaning  underlying  the 
first.  The  following  examples,  which  are  taken  from  the  "  Song 
of  Myself,"  will  serve  to  give  an  idea  of  the  feature  in  question, 
which  belongs  more  or  less  to  the  whole  volume : 

Houses  and  rooms  are  full  of  perfumes,  the  shelves  are  crowded  with  per- 
fumes, 
I  breathe  the  fragrance  myself  and  know  it  and  like  it. 
The  distillation  would  intoxicate  me  also,  but  I  shall  not  let  it. 

The  atmosphere  is  not  a  perfume,  it  has  no  taste  of  the  distillation,  it  is  odor- 
less, 
It  is  for  my  mouth  forever,  I  am  in  love  with  it, 

I  will  go  to  the  bank  by  the  wood  and  become  undisguised  and  naked, 
I  am  mad  for  it  to  be  in  contact  with  me. 

In  this  passage  "Houses  and  rooms"  are  the  schools,  religions, 
philosophies,  literature  ;  "  perfumes  "  are  their  modes  of  thought 
and  feeling;  the  "atmosphere"  is  the  thought  and  feeling  ex- 
cited in  a  healthy  and  free  individual  by  direct  contact  with 
Nature;  to  be  "naked  "  is  to  strip  off  the  swathing,  suffocating 
folds  and  mental  wrappings  derived  from  civilization. 

Stop  this  day  and  night  with  mc,  and  you  shall  possess  the  origin  of  all  poems, 

means,  Live  with  me  (with  my  book)  until  my  mode  of  thought 
ap.d  feeling  becomes  your  mode  of  thought  and  feeling. 

I  have  heard  what  the  talkers  were  talking,  the  talk  of  the  beginning  and  the 
end. 


amid  the  most  crowded  liaunls  of  the  city,  or  the  shipiiiiiH  hy  day — and  then  at  ni^ht,  often 
ill  tlie  ilemocra'. ic  ami)hithealrc  of  the  Fourteentli  btreet  Opera  House.  The  pieces  in  his 
"  linim  Taps"  were  all  prepared  in  camp,  in  the  midst  of  war  scenes,  on  picket  or  the 
m.irch,  in  the  army.  He  now  spends  the  summers  mostly  at  a  solitary  farm  "  down  in  Jer- 
sey," where  l\e  likes  best  to  he  by  a  secluded,  picturesque  pond  on  Tiu\bcr  Creek.  It  is  in 
such  places,  and  in  the  c<iinitry  at  larj;f,  in  the  West,  on  the  I'rairies,  by  the  Pacific — in  cities 
loo.  New  York,  VVashiiiglon,  New  Orleai::  ,  along  Lonjj  Inland  shore  whore  he  well  loves  to 
linger,  that  Walt  Whitman  has  really  had  his  place  uf  compusition. 

»4 


1 62  Wa/i  Whitman. 

means,  I  have  studied  what  has  been  taught  in  the  philosophies 
and  religious  systems  as  to  the  Creation  or  the  final  destinies  and 
purposes  of  men  and  things. 

I  am  satisfied — I  see,  dance,  laugh,  sing; 

As  the  hugging  and  loving  bed-fellow  sleeps  at  my  side  through  the  night,  and 

withdraws  at  the  peep  of  the  day  with  stealthy  tread. 
Leaving  me  baskets  cover'd  with  white  towels  swelling  the  house  with  their 

plenty, 
Shall  I  postpone  my  acceptation  and  realization  and  scream  at  my  eyes 
That  they  turn  from  gazing  after  and  down  the  road, 
And  forthwith  cipher  and  show  me  to  a  cent, 
Exactly  the  value  of  one  and  exactly  the  value  of  two,  and  which  is  ahead  ? 

means,  I  am  contented  and  happy  as  I  am ;  refreshed  with  sleep, 
I  have  all  I  need  ;  that  being  the  case,  shall  I  put  off  the  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  and  blame  myself  that  I  do  not  take  part  with  the 
world  in  studies,  money-making,  ambition  and  the  like,  or  spend 
my  time  calculating  what  is  best  to  do,  say,  etc.  ? 

Long  enough  have  you  dream'd  contemptible  dreams; 
Now  I  wash  the  gum  from  your  eyes, 

You  must  habit  yourself  to  the  dazzle  of  the  light  and  of  every  moment  of 
your  life ; 

Long  have  you  timidly  waded  holding  a  plank  by  the  shore; 
Now  1  will  you  to  be  a  bold  swimmer. 

To  jump  off  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  rise  again,  nod  to  me,  shout,  and  laugh- 
ingly dash  with  your  hair; 

means,  You  have  long  enough  been  degraded  by  ancient  super- 
stitions, followed  the  systems,  the  i.hools,  the  religions  handed 
down  from  old  times,  all  taken  for  granted,  wanting  courage  to 
look  for  yourselves ;  now  I  propose  to  have  you  face  all  things 
and  your  fortunes  with  confidence  and  faith,  and  live  a  free  and 
joyful  life. 

I  swear  I  will  never  again  mention  love  or  death  inside  a  house, 

means,  I  will  never  more  thin^-  or  have  you  think,  of  love  or 
death  in  the  conventional  ways,  with  the  old  limitations  (the 
walls  of  the  house)  or  with  the  feeling  of  dread  (in  the  case  of 
death). 


The  theme  of  Sexuality  in  his  Poems.  163 

And  filter  and  fibre  your  blood, 

means,  and  purify  and  strengthen  your  spiritual  nature. 

These  examples  might  be  multipUed  to  almost  any  extent,  for 
a  large  part  of  this  poem,  as  of  all  Leaves  of  Grass,  is  made  up 
of  language  which  I  have  characterized  as  indirect,  but  which, 
when  understood,  is  seen  to  be  more  direct  than  any  other. 
This  "Song  of  Myself"  is,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  a 
religious  poem.  From  beginning  to  end  it  is  an  expression  of 
Faith,  the  most  lofty  and  absolute  that  man  has  so  far  attained. 
There  are  passages  in  it  expressive  of  love  or  sympathy,  but  taken 
as  a  whole,  the  groundwork  and  vivifying  spirit  of  the  poem  is 
Faith. 

Following  the  "Song  of  Myself,"  comes  the  group  called  "Chil- 
dren of  Adam."  ("He  that  will  deepest  serve  men,"  says  De 
Foe,  "  must  not  promise  himself  that  he  shall  not  anger  them.") 
These  poems  ha  zing  been  misunderstood,  as  was  indeed  inevitable 
at  first,  have  given  rise  to  condemnatory  criticism  not  only 
against  the  pieces  themselves  (which  really  form  a  small  propor- 
tion of  the  whole  work),  but  against  the  rest  of  the  book,  and  its 
author.  Perhaps  these  poems  can  only  be  justified  as  they  justify 
themselves,  by  altering  the  mental  attitude  of  society  and  litera- 
ture towards  the  whole  subject  treated  in  them  ;  and  this  of  course 
will  take  time,  no  doubt  several  generations.  For,  though  to  a 
few  thoughtful  people,  women  as  well  as  men,  these  parts  either 
require  no  justification,  or  are  already  justified  by  the  process  in- 
dicated, yet  probably  the  vast  majority  of  persons  now  living  in 
the  most  civilized  countries  could  never  be  got  to  believe,  and 
could  never  if  they  tried  make  themselves  see,  that  the  mental 
attitude  represented  by  Walt  Whitman  is  higher  and  better  (as  it 
certainly  is,  and  time  will  prove  it)  than  has  before  existed  to- 
wards all  things  relating  to  sex.  The  following  on  the  subject  is 
from  a  criticism  by  Joseph  B.  Marvin  in  the  Boston  quarterly 
"  Radical  "  for  August,  1877  : 

There  are  two  phases  of  Whitman's  poetry  we  have  barely  alluded  to:  his 
treatmeul  of  sex,  and  his  form  of  expression;  his  celebration  of  amativeness, 
and  his  art.  It  is  these,  chielly,  that  have  given  offence.  As  to  the  first — as 
to  sexuality — there  is  an  instinct  of  silence,  which,  it  is  said,  Whitman,  in  his 


164  Wa/t  Whitman. 

group  of  poems  entitled  "  CliiUlren  of  Adam  "  rudely  ignores  and  overrides. 
But  so  docs  the  phyNio!ogi;>t  and  the  true  physician  ignore  this  instinct  and 
break  the  silence :  and  properly  so.  Antl  this  poet  of  Democracy  is  a  physi- 
cian of  bcith  soul  and  body.  He  comes  to  diagnosticate  the  disease  in  the 
intellect,  in  the  art,  in  the  heart,  of  America  to-day.  And  what  does  his 
discriminating  eye  discern?  He  sees  that  there  is  a  false  sense  of  shame  at- 
taching, in  the  modern  mind,  to  the  sexual  relation  There  is  tacit  admis- 
sion among  men  and  women  everywhere,  in  our  tmie,  that  there  is  inherent 
vilcness  in  this  relation,  in  sc  itself,  and  in  'he  body.  We  come  honestly 
enough  by  this  belief.  The  tradition  is  very  old.  It  began  with  Judaism, 
and  Christianity  has  maintained  it.  The  Church  chants  it  in  her  litanies; 
and  Puritanism  has  emphasized  it,  and  formulated  it  into  an  iron  creed.  The 
body's  vilcness  is  traced  back  in  our  traditions  even  to  the  beginning  of  the 
human  race.  Nor  is  there  any  concession  of  the  possibility  of  purification 
on  the  earth.  Was  it  not  time  that  one  came  who  should  break  the  long 
silence  about  sexuality  ?  who  should  show  that  what  men  have  been  dumb 
about,  and  ashamed  of,  through  all  these  years,  is  not  foul,  but  holy — holy  as 
love;  holy  as  birth,  and  fatherhood,  and  motherhood,  to  which  it  all  pertains? 
And  who,  better  than  the  poet,  was  entitled  and  qualified  to  perform  this  ser- 
vice ?  For,  to  him,  the  real  is  visible  always  in  its  ideal  relations.  And  did 
not  the  achievement  of  this  high  task  and  service  devolve  naturally  and  espe- 
cially upon  the  poet  of  Democracy  ;  upon  him  who  is  distinctively  the  attestor 
and  celebrator  of  the  greatness  and  the  divineness  in  men  and  women ;  who 
is  the  interpreting,  rapt  Lucretius  of  human  nature  ?  Before  Whitman  came, 
there  had  been  plenty  of  half-praise  of  human  nature,  and  no  end  of  the 
demagogue's  vulgar  flattery.  But  at  last  comes  one  who  reveres  mankind ; 
by  whom  all,  all oi  man  is  honored;  and  in  whose  eyes  sexuality,  the  body, 
the  soul,  are  equally  pure  and  sacred.  Again,  was  it  not  fitting  that  he  who 
has  celebrated  death  as  has  no  other  poet,  should  likewise  celebrate  birth : 
and  not  only  birth,  but  the  prelude  of  birth, — procreation  and  bf^etting? 

And  now  at  length,  the  task  achieved,  this  service  to  humanity  performed, 
let  the  instinct  of  silence,  if  you  will,  again  prevail.  The  purpose  for  which 
the  spell  was  broken  is  accomplished.  The  flesh  is  freed  from  its  false 
repute.  The  "fall"  is  finished.  Henceforth  humanity  ascends.  Democ- 
racy now  for  the  first  time  interpreted  and  understood,  man  may  begin  to 
achieve  his  destiny  intelligently,  and  in  fulness  of  self-respect. 

But  even  if  this  spiritual  necessity  and  emergency  had  not  existed,  it  may 
easily  be  shown  that  Whitman  is  justified,  from  a  literary  and  artistic  point  of 
view,  in  all  that  he  has  written  of  the  amative  passion.  In  his  large  celebra- 
tion if  humanity,  one  of  the  incidental  undertakings,  subservient  to  his  larger 
purpose,  was  the  cataloguing  of  mankind's  myriad  belongings  and  relations. 
He  would  write  the  inventory  of  man's  illimitable  possessions.  He  would 
assure  him  of  his  own  riches;  and,  by  these  means,  impressing  him  with  some 


J.  B,  Mann/is  Cr'Uicisui.  165 

approximate  sense  of  his  own  importance,  he  might  hope  to  arouse  within  him 
the  self-assurance  and  the  lofty  pride  which  are  the  basis  of  individuality  and 
true  Democracy.  And,  read  in  the  rapt  spirit  of  joy  and  adoration  in  which 
they  were  written,  these  mere  lists  and  schedules  become  sublimest  poems. 
But  what  kind  of  an  inventory  of  the  attributes  and  endowments  of  mankind 
would  that  be  which  omitted  sexuality ;  the  amative  act;  procreation?  Not 
thus  did  antique  genius  record  the  natural  history  of  man.  The  men  of  the 
Bible,  and  of  the  "  Iliad,"  and  of  Shakespeare's  dramas,  were  lusty,  and 
loved,  and  wived,  and  begot  children.  Has  all  this  changed  in  our  time? 
Is  ours  the  age  of  the  neuter  gender?  It  would  seem  so  from  our  popular 
literature. 

A  critic  of  our  popular  literary  school  avers  that  there  is  not  an  impure 
word  in  Shakespeare,  but  that  Whitman  is  ol)scene.  Such  a  declaration  as 
this  is  the  result  of  a  literary  glamour  which  renders  moral  discrimination 
simply  impossible.  Every  line  of  Shakespeare  is  justified  by  the  standard  of 
supreme  art;  but  whether  the  critic  means  to  say  that  the  great  dramatist's 
writings  are  free  from  textual  impurities,  or  from  moral  licentiousness,  his 
assertion  is  equally  untrue  and  absurd.  There  is  not  a  play  of  Shakespeare 
in  which  the  text  is  not  altered  upon  the  stage  to  suit  the  prudery  of  our  time ; 
and  this  critic  himself  could  hardly  be  persuaded,  notwithstanding  his  asser- 
tion, to  read  "  Venus  and  Adonis  "  to  a  miscellaneous  company.  But  Walt 
Whitman,  though  he  is  gross  and  rude,  is  always  pure.  His  grossness  is  the 
grossness  of  Nature,  of  rude  health.  Shakespeare's  treatment  of  the  amor- 
ous passion  is  often  that  of  the  gallant  and  the  voluptuary.  Whitman's  never; 
for,  though  he  celebrates  the  sensuous,  he  never  writes  in  the  interest  of  sen- 
suality, but  of  fatherhood  and  maternity.  He  avows  and  rejoices  in  the  deli- 
ciousness  of  sex;  but,  like  Plato  in  the  "  Republic,"  he  demands  sanity  and 
health  in  it  all,  and  as  the  result  of  it  all.  He  is  the  one  poet,  in  all  time, 
who  has  celel)rat(5d  sex  in  the  interest  of  human  progress;  in  the  service  of 
health, — physical  and  moral, — of  equality,  Democracy,  religion.  The  '  who 
think  they  find  him  obscene,  in  truth  find  Nature  obsc:ene, — find  themselves 
obscene. 

Leaves  of  Grass  is  really  the  largest  single  step  ever  taken  in 
this  special  line  of  progress  towards  sexual  purity.  Sexual  shame 
as  an  inherent  rule  or  concept  in  the  normal  mind,  being 
abolished  (as  it  must  eventually  be),  it  does  not  follow  that 
sexual  organs,  acts  and  feelings  should  be  paraded  or  unveiled. 
There  is  no  corresponding  feeling  of  shame  connected  with  our 
feelings  towards  our  own  genesis,  our  fathers  and  mothers,  our 
children,  our  most  intimate  friends,  or  with  our  religious  feelings, 
or  our  deepest  feelings  towards  Nature.    What  is  wanted  (and 


1 66  IVaU  Whitman. 

must  be  done)  is  to  abolish  the  feeling  of  inherent  shame,  to 
make  recognized  in  the  hearts  of  all,  the  purity,  holiness  and 
perfect  sanity  of  the  sexual  relation  in  itself,  in  its  normality, 
and  then  leave  this  feeling  to  take  its  place  with  all  the  other 
deep  and  strong  emotions. 

Next  after  "  Children  of  Adam,"  comes  the  group  of  poems 
called  "  Calamus."  As  the  **  Song  of  Myself  "  sets  before  us  an 
exalted  moral  attitude  toward  the  universe  at  large,  and  leads  us 
to  realize  and  acquire  (each  for  him  or  her  self)  this  higher  and 
happier  mode  of  thought  and  feeling — as  "Children  of  Adam" 
does  the  same  service  for  us  towards  all  things  relating  to  sex,  so 
"Calamus"  presents  to  us  an  equally  advanced  moral  state  in 
another  direction — an  exalted  friendship,  a  love  into  which  sex 
does  not  enter  as  an  element.  The  following,  on  this  subject,  is 
from  an  article  entitled  **  Walt  Whitman  the  Poet  of  Joy,"  by 
Standish  O'Grady,  in  the  "Gentleman's  Magazine,"  London, 
December,  1875  : 

Of  the  new  ideas  which  Whitman  has  cast  as  seed  into  the  American  l.iain, 
the  importance  which  he  attaches  to  friendship  is  the  most  remarkable.  This 
appears  to  have  been  a  subject  over  which  he  has  brooded  long  and  deeply. 
It  is  not  possible  that  Wiiitman  could  have  written  as  he  has  upon  this  and 
kindred  subjects  if  he  were  merely  a  cultivated  brain  and  nothing  more.  A 
thin-blooded,  weak-spirited  man  may,  doubtless,  like  Swedenborg,  strike  pro- 
found truths  through  sheer  force  of  intellect,  or  may  use  violent  and  swelling 
language  with  little  dilatation  in  his  spirit ;  but  there  is  a  genuineness  and 
eloquence  in  Whitman's  language  concerning  friendship  which  preclude  the 
possibility  of  the  suspicion  that  he  uses  strong  words  for  weak  feelings.  It 
must  not  be  forgotten  that,  though  now  latent,  there  is  in  human  nature  a 
capacity  for  friendship  of  a  most  absorbing  and  passionate  character.  The 
Greeks  were  well  acquainted  with  that  passion,  a  passion  which  in  later  days 
ran  riot  and  assumed  abnormal  forms ;  for  the  fruit  grows  ripe  first,  then  over- 
ripe, and  then  rots.  In  the  days  of  Homer  friendship  was  an  heroic  passion. 
The  friendship  of  Achilles  and  Patroclus  was  for  many  centuries  the  ideal 
after  which  the  young  Greeks  fashioned  their  character.  Nowadays  friend- 
ship means  generally  mere  consentaneity  of  opinions  and  tastes.  With  the 
Greeks  it  was  a  powerful  physical  feeling,  havin^;  physical  conditions.  Beauty 
was  one  of  those  conditions,  as  it  is  now  between  the  sexes.  In  the  dialogues 
of  Plato  we  see  the  extraordinary  nature  of  tlie  friendships  formed  by  the 


A  mayily  Friendships  sane,  heroic,  passionate.        167 

young  men  of  his  time,  the  passionate  absorbing  nature  of  the  relation,  the 
craving  for  beauty  in  connection  with  it,  and  the  approaching  degeneracy  and 
threatened  degradation  of  the  Athenian  character  thereby — which  Plato  vainly 
sought  to  stem,  both  by  his  own  exhortations  and  by  holding  up  the  powerful 
example  of  Socrates.  There  cannot  be  a  doubt  but  that  with  highly  developed 
races  friendship  is  a  passion,  and  like  all  passions  more  physical  than  intel- 
lectual in  its  sources  and  modes  of  expression. 

I  will  sing  the  song  of  companionship  ; 

I  will  show  what  alone  must  finally  compact  These ; 

I  believe  These  are  to  found  their  own  ideal  of  manly  love,  indicating  it  in  me ; 

1  will  therefore  let  flame  from  me  the  burning  fires  that  were  threatening  to  consume  me  ; 

1  will  lift  what  has  too  long  kept  down  those  smouldering  fires ; 

I  will  give  them  complete  abandonment ; 

I  will  write  the  evangel-poem  of  comrades,  and  of  love  ; 

For  who  but  I  should  understand  love,  with  all  its  sorrow  and  joy? 

And  who  but  1  should  be  the  poet  of  comrades  ? 

This  is  strong  language,  and  doubtless  genuine.  Pride  and  love,  I  have 
said,  Whitman  consiiicrs  the  two  hemispheres  of  the  brain  of  humanity,  and 
by  love  he  means  not  alone  benevolence  and  wide  sympathy  and  the  passion 
that  embraces  sexual  relation,  but  that  other  passion  which  has  existed  before, 
and  whose  latent  strength  the  American  poet  here  indicates  as  a  burning  and 
repressed  flame.  Elsewhere  he  speaks  of  the  sick,  sick  dread  of  unreturned 
friendship,  of  the  comrade's  kiss,  the  arm  round  the  neck — but  he  speaks  to 
sticks  and  stones;  the  emotion  does  not  exist  in  us,  and  the  language  of  his 
evangel-poems  appears  simply  disgusting. 

Yes,  "disgusting"  to  fops  and  artificial  scholars  and  prim 
gentlemen  of  the  clubs — but  sane,  heroic,  full-blooded,  natural 
men  will  find  in  it  the  deepest  God-implanted  voices  of  their 
hearts. 

The  next  poem  is  called  "  Salut  au  Monde,"  and  is,  as  its 
name  implies,  a  salutation  to  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  the  world, 
sent  in  America's  name.  It  begins  in  a  low  key,  broad  and  calm, 
but  becomes  more  and  more  impassioned  as  it  proceeds,  until 
towards  its  close  the  intensity  of  the  feeling  expressed  becomes 
almost  painful. 

The  "Song  of  the  Open  Road,"  which  follows  next  in  order, 
is  one  of  the  supremely  great  poems  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  It  is  a 
mystic  and  indirect  chant  of  aspiration  toward  a  noble  life,  a 
vehement  demand  to  reach  the  very  highest  point  that  the  hu- 
man soul  is  capable  of  attaining — to  join  the  "great  compan- 


1 68  WaU  Whitman. 

ions,"  "  the  swift  and  majestic  men,  the  greatest  wo-nen,"  who 
have  from  age  to  age  shown  what  human  life  might  be.  This  is  a 
religious  poem  in  the  truest  and  best  sense  of  the  term.  Not  the 
imitative  sense  in  which  "Paradise  Regained,"  "The  Course 
of  Time,"  or  "Yesterday,  To-day  and  Forever/'  are  religious 
poems ;  they  go  back  to  other  poems,  other  books,  and  depend 
on  them  for  their  meaning.  But  this  and  the  other  chants  of 
Leaves  of  Grass  go  back  to  Nature  and  the  soul  of  man,  and  de- 
rive thence  their  meaning. 

But  it  is  unnecessr'ry  and  would  take  too  much  space  to  review 
the  whole  book  in  detail,  and  to  show,  as  might  be  shown,  how 
the  whole  poem  (for  Leaves  of  Grass  is  really  one  poem)  has  for 
its  purpose  simply  to  carry  exalted  morality  into  all  the  affairs 
and  relations  of  life — to  exhibit  it,  for  instance,  in  "  Salut  au 
Monde  "  and  "  Faces,"  as  toward  the  lower  races  and  classes  of 
mankind  ;  in  "Memories  of  President  Lincoln,"  "To  Think  of 
Time,"  and  many  other  poems,  as  toward  death  ;  in  "  So  Long" 
and  "Years  of  the  Modern,"  as  toward  the  future  generally;  in 
"  To  You,"  and  numerous  other  pieces,  as  toward  average  hu- 
manity; in  "Our  Old  Feuillage,"  as  toward  the  United  States 
of  to-day,  and  in  the  "Song  of  the  Broadaxe,"  as  toward  the 
special  future  of  America.  In  the  third  (iS6o)  edition,  the  last- 
named  poem  contained  the  following  lines,  which  have  been  left 
out  of  later  issues,  I  suppose  as  being  too  fully  and  frankly  per- 
sonal, but  for  that  very  reason  they  shall  have  a  pla*"?  here.  They 
form  a  life-picture  that  might  be  readily  recognized  in  New 
York  City  or  Brooklyn,  on  the  East  River  there,  or  Broadway, 
by  those  who  can  carry  their  reminiscences  back  twenty-five  or 
thirty  years : 

His  shape  arises, 

Arrogant,  masculine,  naive,  rowdyisli, 

Laugher,  weeper,  worker,  idler,  citizen,  countryman, 

Saunterer  of  woods,  slander  upon  hills,  summer  swimmer  in  rivers  or  by  the 
sea, 

Of  pure  American  breed,  of  reckless  health,  his  body  perfect,  free  from  taint 
from  top  to  toe,  free  forever  from  headache  and  dyspepsia,  clean- 
breathed, 


His  sclf-drazvu  Portrait.  169 

Ample-limbecl,  n  good  feeder,  weight  a  hundred  and  eighty  pounds,  full 
l)looded,  six  feet  high,  forty  inches  round  the  breast  and  back. 

Countenance  sunl)urnt,  bearded,  cahn,  unrefined, 

Reminder  of  animals,  meeter  of  savage  and  gentleman  on  equal  terms, 

Altitudes  litlie  and  erect,  costume  free,  neck  gray  and  open,  of  slow  move- 
ment on  foot, 

I'asser  of  his  right  arm  round  the  shoulders  of  hir.  friends,  companion  of  the 
street. 

Persuader  always  of  people  to  give  him  their  sweetest  touches,  and  never  their 
meanest, 

A  Manhattanese  bred,  fond  of  Brooklyn,  fond  of  Broadway,  fond  of  the  life 
of  the  wharves  and  the  great  ferries, 

Enterer  everywhere,  welcomed  everywhere,  easily  understood  after  all. 

Never  offering  others,  always  offering  himself,  corroborating  his  phrenology. 

Voluptuous,  inhabitive,  combative,  conscientious,  alimentive,  intuitive,  of 
copious  friendship,  sublimity,  firmness,  self-esteem,  comparison,  indi- 
viduality, form,  locality,  eventuality. 

Avowing  by  life,  manners,  works,  to  contribute  illustrations  of  results  of  The 
States, 

Teacher  of  the  unquenchable  creed,  namely,  egotism, 

Inviter  of  others  continually  henceforth  to  try  their  strength  against  his. 

The  poem  entitled  "The  Answerer"  is  a  description  of  the  full 
poet  (Walt  Whitman  or  any  other).  The  term  is  given  a  higher 
meaning  here  than  it  usually  bears.  The  class  of  men  usually 
called  poets  are  here  called  "singers,"  and  the  \iox(\.Poet  is  used 
for  another,  a  smaller  and  far  higher  order  of  man.  Of  that 
higher  order  ''The  Answerer"  says: 

Him  all  wait  for,  him  all  yield  up  to,  his  word  is  decisive  and  final, 
Ilim  they  accept,  in  him  lave,  in  him  perceive  themselves  as  amid  light, 
Ilim  they  immerse,  and  he  immerses  them. 

Tlie  singers  do  not  beget,  only  the  Poet  begets. 

The  singers  are  welcom'd,  understood,  appear  often  enough — but  rare  has  the 

day  been,  likewise  the  spot,  of  the  birth  of  the  maker  of  poems,  the 

Answerer, 
(Not  every  century  nor  every  live  centuries  has  contain'd  such  a  day,  for  all 

its  names.) 

Before  "  The  Answerer  "  can  be  appreciated,  it  is  essential  that 
Leaves  of  Grass  as  a  whole  should  be  pretty  thoroughly  absorbed, 
and  the  true  rank  of  its  author  realized. 


I/O  Wa/i  Whitman. 

Passing  now  over  a  large  number  of  poems,  many  of  them  as 
great  as  any  in  the  volume  we  come  to  a  group  which  has  a  spe- 
cial celebrity,  namely,  "Drum-Taps."  These,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few,  are  short  pieces,  and  to  my  mind  not  by  any  means 
equal  to  those  which,  in  date  of  composition,  preceded  them. 
The  fire  that  burned  in  "  Song  of  Myself,"  "  Children  of  Adam," 
"  Calamus,"  "  The  Song  of  the  Open  Road,"  "  Salut  au  Monde," 
"Faces,"  "Songs  before  Parting,"  and  some  other  pieces,  with 
such  almost  unbearable  heat  and  radiance,  was  beginning  to  die 
out.  They  are,  it  is  true,  the  most  beautiful  poems  Walt  Whit- 
man has  written.  They  to-day,  and  probably  for  many  years 
(perhaps  always),  will  have  more  readers  and  admirers  than  any 
other  portion  of  his  works,  but  thev  would  never  (not  a  thousand 
such  poems)  alter  materially  for  the  better  a  human  life.  They 
help  the  others,  and  are  important,  perhaps  essential,  as  taking 
their  place  with  the  rest.  They  are  warmed  by  the  divine  fire,* 
but  not  capable  alone  of  kindling  that  fire  in  another  human 
soul.  Many  clever  critics  (lil<  Th.  Bentzon,  the  reviewer  of 
Leaves  of  Grass  in  the  "Revue  des  deux  Mondes")  admire 
"  Drum-Taps"  immensely,  while  they  find  the  "Song  of  Myself  " 
"nonsense."  According  to  such  reviewers  Walt  Whitman  was, 
when  he  wrote  these  pieces,  at  the  end  of  his  apprenticeship,  and 
beginning  to  write  good  verses!  He  was  certainly  progressing, 
but  in  what  sense?  A  few  more  steps  of  the  same  length  in  the 
same  direction,  towards  beauty  of  execution  with  loss  of  strength 
— towards  fulness  of  expression  with  loss  of  suggestion — towards 
greater  polish  and  /licility  of  pleasing  with  loss  of  power  of 
arousing  and  vivifying— and  Walt  Whitman  would  be  upon  the 
plane  of  the  "great  poets"  of  the  Nineteenth  century.  But, 
thank  God,  he  can  never  take  those  steps.  He  is  safe  from  this 
fate.  The  day  will  come  when  he  will  be  popular,  but  it  will  be 
when  men  grow  up  to  him,  not  when  he  comes  down  to  them. 
In  "  Drum-Taps"  Walt  Whitman's  genius  has  "  not  yet  lost  all 
its  original  brightness,  nor  appears  less  than  Archangel  ruined." 


*  The  London  "  Nineteenth  Cert  i  ■  '  (December,  i88a)  say"*  of  "  Drum-Taps,"  "  It  con- 
tains some  of  tlie  most  nia^;iiificcnt  piul  spirit-stirrini;  IrunipetMasts,  as  well  as  s^ome  of  the 
most  deeply  moving  aspects  uf  sulTering  and  deutli,  ever  expressed  by  poet," 


Emotional  element  of  **  Drum-Taps y  171 

It  is  still  divine,  still  immeasurably  above  (not  by  degree  merely, 
but  by  kind)  that  of  every  other  poet  of  the  present  time,  but  it 
is  not  the  genius  that  poured  out  the  fiery  torrent  of  the  earlier 
poems.  Had  we  never  known  those,  we  might  think  that  words 
could  not  convey  greater  passion  than  they  are  made  to  bear  in 
some  of  "Drum-Taps;"  but  now  we  know  better.  And  it  is 
not  only  in  amount  but  also  in  kind  of  passion  that  "Drum- 
Taps"  fall  short.  The  splendid  faith  of  the  earlier  poems  is  not 
extinct,  indeed,  in  these,  but  it  is  greatly  dimmed.  On  the  other 
hand,  love  and  sympathy  are  as  strongly  expressed  here  as  any- 
where else  in  Leaves  of  Grass.  I  have  been  told  by  a  person  who 
knew  the  poet  well,  and  who  was  living  in  Washington  when 
"Drum-Taps"  were  being  composed,  that  he  has  seen  Walt 
Whitman  at  this  time  turn  aside  into  a  doorway  or  other  out-of- 
the-way  place  on  the  street,  and  take  out  his  note-book  to  write 
some  lines  of  these  poems,  and  while  he  was  so  doing  he  has  seen 
the  tears  run  down  his  cheeks.  I  can  well  believe  this,  for  there 
are  poems  in  "  Drum-Taps  "  that  can  scarcely  be  read  aloud  after 
their  full  meaning  has  once  been  felt.  But  the  tears  shed  by 
Walt  Whitman  in  writing  th'='se  poems,  while  they  indicate  to  us 
clearly  the  passionate  sympathy  which  dictated  them,  show  also 
a  loss  of  personal  force  (/'.  e.  faith)  in  the  man  who  some  years 
before  wrote  "Children  of  Adam"  and  "  Calauius  "  without 
flinching. 

From  "Drum-Taps"  to  the  end  of  the  volume  (1882  edition) 
there  are  one  hundred  and  twenty  pages  of  poetry,  most  of 
it  belonging  to  the  first  order  of  excellence,  a  good  deal  of  it 
written  in  what  may  be  called  the  "Song  of  Myself"  period. 
"By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore,"  for  instance,  was  nearly  all  published 
in  the  1855  edition,  but  at  that  time  in  the  shape  of  a  prose  pre- 
foce.  The  "Sleepers"  was  also  published  in  that  edition,  and 
ranks  among  the  very  great  poems.  It  is  a  representation  of  the 
mind  during  sleep — of  connected,  half-connected,  and  discon- 
nected thoughts  and  feelings  as  they  occur  in  dreams,  some  com- 
monplace, some  weird,  some  voluptuous,  and  all  given  with  the 
true  and  strange  emotional  accompaniments  that  belong  to  them. 
Sometimes  (and  these  are  the  most  astonishing  parts  of  the  poem) 


172  WaU  Whitman. 

• 

the  vague  emotions,  without  thought,  that  occasionally  arise  in 
sleep,  are  given  as  they  actually  occur,  apart  from  any  idea — the 
words  having  in  the  intellectual  sense  no  meaning,  but  arousing, 
as  music  does,  the  state  of  feeling  intended.  It  is  a  poem  that 
with  most  people  requires  a  great  deal  of  study  to  make  anything 
of  it,  but  to  certain  minds  it  would,  no  doubt,  be  plain  at  once. 

The  next  group,  called  "Whispers  of  Heavenly  Death,"  con- 
tains some  exquisite  poems  on  that  subject,  of  which  the  follow- 
ing is  perhaps  a  fair  sample : 

I  need  no  assurances,  I  am  a  man  who  is  preoccupied  of  his  own  soul ; 

I  do  not  douljt  that  iVom  under  the  feet  and  beside  the  hands  and  face  I  am 

cognizant  of,  are  now  looking  faces  I  am  not  cognizant  of — calm  and 

actual  faces, 
I  do  not  doubt  but  the  majesty  and  beauty  of  the  world  are  latent  in  any  iota 

of  the  world, 
I  do  not  doubt  I  am  limitless,  and  that  the  universes  are  limitless — in  vain  I 

try  to  think  how  limitless, 
I  do  not  doubt  that  the  orbs  and  the  systems  of  orbs  play  their  swift  sports 

through  the  air  on  purpose,  and  that  I  shall  one  day  be  eligible  to  do 

as  mjch  as  they,  and  more  vhan  they, 
I  do  not  doubt  that  temporary  affairs  keep  on  c  nd  on  millions  of  years, 
I  do  not  doubt  interiors  have  their  interiors,  and  exteriors  have  their  exteriors, 

and  that  the  eyesight  has  another  eyesight,  and  the  hearing  another 

hearing,  and  the  voice  another  voice, 
I  do  not  doubt  that  the  passionately-wept  deaths  of  young  men  are  provided 

for,  and  that  the  deaths  of  young  women  and  the  deaths  of  little  chil- 
dren are  provided  for, 
(Did  you  think  Life  was  so  well  provided  for,  and  Death,  the  purport  of  all 

Life,  is  not  well  provided  for?) 
I  do  not  doubt  that  wrecks  at  sea,  no  matter  what  the  horrors  of  them,  no 

matter  whose  wife,  child,  husband,  father,  lover,  has  gone  down,  are 

provided  for,  to  the  minutest  points, 
I  do  not  doubt  that  whatever  can  possibly  happen  anywhere  ax    .ly  time,  is 

provided  for  in  the  inherences  of  things, 
I  do  not  think  Life  provides  for  all,  and  for  Time  and  Space,  but  I  believe 

Heavenly  Death  provides  for  all. 

How  a  man  who  spent  his  whole  life  writing  just  such  poems 
as  that  (and  what  is  better,  living  them)  can  be  considered  by  a 
vast  majority  of  the  community  an  irreligious  person  is  one  of 


^*  Prayer  of  Columbus^  173 

those  terrible  mysteries  which  may  be  explained  a  hundred  times, 
but  remains  incomprehensible  at  last.  Or  consider  the  "Prayer 
of  Columbus  "  (really,  under  a  thin  disguise,  the  prayer  of  Walt 
Whitman) — the  deep  below  deep  of  meaning  and  feeling  in  those 
passionate,  most  religious  lines : 

O,  I  am  sure  they  really  came  from  Thee, 

The  urge,  the  ardor,  the  unconquerable  will, 

The  potent,  felt,  interior  command,  stronger  than  words, 

A  message  from  the  heavens  whispering  to  me,  even  in  sleep; 

These  sped  me  on. 

One  effort  more,  my  altar  this  bleak  sand : 

That  Thou,  O  God,  my  life  hast  lighted 

With  ray  of  light,  steady,  ineffable,  vouchsafed  of  Thee, 

Light  rare,  untellable,  lighting  the  very  light, 

Beyond  all  signs,  descriptions,  languages  ; 

For  that,  O  God,  be  it  my  latest  word,  here  on  my  knees, 

Old,  poor  and  paralyzed,  I  thank  Thee. 

My  terminus  near, 

The  clouds  already  closing  in  upon  me, 
The  voyage  balked,  the  course  disputed,  lost, 
I  yield  my  ships  to  Thee. 

My  hands,  my  limbs  grow  nerveless. 

My  brain  feels  rack'd,  bewildcr'd  ; 

Let  the  old  timbers  part,  I  will  not  part, 

1  win  cling  fast  to  Thee,  O  God,  though  the  waves  buffet  me, 

Thee,  Thee  at  least  I  know. 

How  is  it  possible  for  any  one  to  look  into  the  heart  here 
thrown  open,  and  not  recognize  what  kind  of  man  it  belongs  to  ? 

The  volume  concludes  with  "So  Long,"  a  sublime  farewell, 
of  which  the  following  is  the  last  part : 

My  songs  cease,  I  abandon  them, 

Fror,-:  behind  the  screen  where  I  hid  I  advance   personally  solely  to  you. 

Camerado,  this  is  no  book. 

Who  touches  this  touches  a  man, 

(Is  it  night?    are  we  here  together  alone?) 

It  is  I  you  hold  and  who  holds  you, 

I  spring  from  the  pages  into  your  arms — decease  calls  me  forth. 


1/4  Wa^f  Wkitjnan.  ^ 

0  how  your  fingers  drowse  me, 

Your  lireath  falls  arouncl  me  like  dew,  your  pulse  lulls  the  tympans  of  my  ears, 

1  feel   immerged  from  head  to  foot, 
Delicious,  enough. 

Enough  O  deed  impromptu  and  secret. 

Enough  O  gliding  present — enough  O  summ'd-up  past. 

Dear  friend  whoever  you  are  take  this  kiss, 

1  give  it  especially  to  you,  do  not  forget  me, 

I  feel  like  one  who  has  done  work  for  the  day  to  retire  awhile, 

I  receive  now  again  of  my  many  translations,  from  my  avataras  ascend- 
ing, while  others  doubtless  await  me. 

An  unknown  sphere  more  real  than  I  dream'd,  more  direct,  darts  awak- 
ening rays  about  me.  So  long! 

Remember  my  words,  I  may  again  return, 

I  love  you,  I  depart  from  materials, 

I  am  as  one  disembodied,  triumphant,  dead. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ANALYSIS  OF  POEMS,  CONTINUED. 

I  HAVE  now  reviewed  briefly  from  my  point  of  view  the  book  in 
which  Walt  Whitman  has,  as  far  as  such  a  thing  is  possible,  em- 
bodied himself.  It  remains  to  state  as  well  as  I  can  the  inner 
and  more  specific  significance  of  the  poems.  After  their  unques- 
tionable birthmarks,  so  different  from  European  models  or  from 
any  copied  or  foreign  type  whatever,*  the  first  thing  to  be 
noticed  about  Leaves  of  Grass  (this  is  what  strikes  nearly  every 
one  immediately  upon  trying  to  read  it)  is  the  difficulty  to  the  or- 
dinary, even  intelligent  reader,  of  understanding  it.  On  this  point 
my  own  experience  has  been  as  follows,  About  eighteen  years 
ago,  I  began  to  read  it.  For  many  months  I  could  see  abso- 
lutely nothing  in  the  book,  and  at  times  I  was  strongly  inclined 
to  believe  that  there  was  nothing  in  it  to  see.  But  I  could  not  let 
it  alone ;  although  one  day  I  would  throw  it  down  in  a  sort  of 
rage  at  its  want  of  meaning,  the  next  day  or  the  day  after  I  would 
take  it  up  again  with  just  as  lively  an  interest  as  ever,  persuaded 

*  The  London  "  Times  "  (June,  1878),  in  an  article  on  the  death  of  William  Ciilien  Hryant, 
takes  for  its  main  theme  this  excessive  imitativeness  of  American  poets,  and  their  entire 
want  of  special  nativity,  adding,  "  Unless  Wait  Whitman  is  to  be  reck(jned  among  the  poets, 
American  verse,  from  its  earliest  to  its  latest  stages,  seems  an  exotic,  with  an  exuberance  of 
gorKoous  blo=som,  but  no  principle  of  reproduction." 

Tiic  same  English  journal  (March  25,  1882),  in  an  editor-al  on  the  death  of  Longfellow, 
continues  in  a  similar  strain,  "We  are  not  forgetting  his  'Hiawatha'  when  we  say  that  he 
might  have  written  his  best  poems  with  as  inucli  local  fitness  in  our  own  Cambridge  as  in  its 
namesake  across  the  Atlantic ; "  and  sidkily  adds  :  "We  are  told  that  in  Walt  Whitman's 
rough,  barbaric,  imttmed  lines,  full  of  questionable  morality,  and  unfettered  l)y  rhyme,  is  the 
nucleus  of  the  literature  of  the  future.  'J'hat  may  be  so,  and  the  Leaves  0/  Crass  may  prove, 
as  is  predicted,  the  foundation  of  a  real  American  literature,  whit-h  will  mirror  the  pecidiarities 
of  the  life  of  that  continent,  and  which  will  attempt  to  present  no  false  ideal.  Vet  we  shall  bs 
surprised  if  the  new  school,  with  its  dead  set  towards  ugliness  and  its  morbid  turn  for  the  bad 
sides  of  nature,  willdraw  people  wholly  away  from  the  stainless  pages,  rich  in  garnered  wealth, 
fancy  and  allusions,  and  the  sunny  pictures,  which  are  to  be  found  m  the  books  of  the  poet 
who  has  just  died." 

(•75) 


176  JVa/i  Whitman. 

that  there  was  something  there,  and  determined  to  find  out  what 
that  might  be.  At  first  as  I  read,  it  seemed  to  me  the  writer  was 
always  on  the  point  of  saying  something  which  he  never  actually 
said.  Page  after  page  seemed  equally  barren  of  any  definite 
statement.  Then  after  a  time  I  found  that  a  few  lines  here  and 
there  were  full  of  suggestion  and  beauty.  Gradually  these  bright 
spots,  as  I  may  call  them,  grew  larger,  more  numerous  and  more 
brilliant,  until  at  last  the  whole  surface  was  lit  up  with  an  almost 
unearthly  splendor. 

And  still  I  am  well  aware  that  I  do  not  yet  fully  understand 
this  book.  Neither  do  I  expect  ever  to  understand  it  entirely, 
though  I  learn  something  more  about  it  almost  every  day,  and 
shall  probably  go  on  reading  it  as  long  as  I  live.  I  doubt  whether 
I  fully  understand  any  part  of  it.  For  the  more  it  is  studied  the 
more  profound  it  is  seen  to  be,  stretching  out  vista  beyond  vista 
apparently  interminably.  Now  it  may  seem  strange  that  any 
person  should  go  on  reading  a  book  he  could  not  understand, 
and,  consequently,  could  in  the  ordinary  way  take  no  interest. 
The  explanation  is  that  there  is  the  same  peculiar  magnetism 
about  Leaves  of  Grass  as  about  Walt  Whitman  himself,  so  that 
people  who  once  really  begin  to  read  it  and  get  into  the  range 
of  its  attraction,  must  go  on  reading  it  whether  they  compre- 
hend it  or  not,  or  until  they  do  comprehend  it.  As  Walt  Whit- 
man says-: 

I  teach  straying  from  me,  yet  who  can  stray  from  me  ? 
I  follow  you  whoever  you  are  from  the  present  hour, 
My  words  itch  at  your  ears  till  you  understand  them. 

But  after  all,  granting  that  this  is  true,  is  it  worth  while  to  read 
any  book  for  years  on  the  mere  chance  of  underL^^rding  it  at 
last?  Certainly  it  would  not  be  worth  while  with  many  books, 
but  I  will  answer  for  it  that  no  one  who  reads  Leaves  of  Grass 
so  as  to  understand  it  at  all  will  ever  repent  the  time  and  pains. 
For  this  is  not  a  book  that  merely  amuses  or  instructs.  It  does 
neither  of  these  in  the  ordinary  sense,  but  it  does  far  more  than 
amuse  or  instruct.  It  is  capable  of  making  whoever  wishes  to  be 
so,  wiser,  happier,  better ;  i^nd  it  does  these  not  by  acting  on  the 


Analysis  of  his  Poetry.  177 

intellect,  by  telling  us  what  is  best  for  us,  what  we  ought  to  do 
and  avoid  doing,  and  the  like,  but  by  acting  directly  on  the 
moral  nature  itself,  and  elevating  and  purifying  that.  Why  is 
this  book  so  hard  to  understand  ?  In  the  first  place  it  is  worth 
while  to  notice  that  the  author  of  Leaves  of  Grass  was  himself 
well  aware  of  this  difficulty,  as  he  says  in  the  two  following  and 
in  many  other  places  : 

But  these  leaves  conning  you  con  at  peril, 

For  these  leaves  and  mc  you  will  not  understand, 

They  will  elude  you  at  first,  and  still  more  afterward,  I  will  certainly  elude 

you, 
Even  while  you  should  think  you  had  unquestionably  caught  me,  behold  I 
Already  you  see  I  have  escaped  from  you. 

Then  in  the  lines  "To  a  Certain  Civilian  :' 

Did  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me  ? 

Did  you  seek  the  civilian's  peaceful  and  languishing  rhymes? 

Did  you  find  what  I  sang  erewhile  so  hard  to  follow  ? 

Why  1  was  not  singing  erewhile  for  you  to  follow,  to  understand — nor  am  I 

now; 
(1  have  been  born  of  the  same  as  the  war  was  born, 
The  drum-corps'  rattle  is  ever  to  me  sweet  music — I  love  well  the  martial 

dirge. 
With  slow  wail  and  convulsive  throb  leading  the  officer's  funeral ;) 
What  to  such  as  you  anyhow  such  a  poet  as  I  ?  therefore  leave  my  works, 
And  go  lull  yourself  with  what  you  can  understand,  and  with  piano-tunes, 
I'or  I  lull  nobody,  and  you  will  never  understand  me. 

Are  we  to  conclude  that  Walt  Whitman  wished  and  intended 
his  writings  to  be  difficult  of  comprehension?  I  do  not  think  so 
at  all.  1  think  he  would  gladly  have  every  one  comprehend  him 
at  once  if  possible.  Must  we  suppose  then  that  he  had  not  the 
ability  to  so  write  as  to  make  himself  easily  intelligible?  that  in 
fact  he  is  deficient  in  the  faculty  of  clear  expression  ?  On  the 
contrary  I  should  say  that  Walt  Whitman  is  a  supreme  master  of 
the  art  of  expression.  In  a  case  like  this  there  is  some  one  else 
besides  the  poet  who  may  be  to  blame,  and  perhaps  the  fault 
may  lie  with — the  reader.  Must  we  say  then  that  ordinary  men, 
or  even  able  men  (for  many  of  these  have  tried  to  read  Leaves 


1/8  WaU  Whitman. 

of  Grass  and  failed),  have  not  sufficient  intelligence  to  compre- 
hend the  book  ?     No,  I  neither  say  nor  believe  this. 

The  fact  is,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  there  is  nothing  to  under- 
stand about  Leaves  of  Grass  which  any  person  of  average  intelli- 
gence could  not  comprehend  with  the  greatest  ease.  The  secret 
of  the  difficulty  is,  that  the  work,  different  from  every  popular 
book  of  poetry  known,  appeals  almost  entirely  to  the  moral 
nature,  and  hardly  at  all  to  the  intellect — that  to  understand  it 
means  putting  oneself  in  emotional,  and  not  simply  mental  rela- 
tion with  its  author — means  to  thoroughly  realize  Walt  Whitman 
— to  be  in  sympr.i'^  with  the  heart  and  mind  of  perhaps  the 
most  advanced  nature  the  world  has  yet  produced.  This,  of 
course,  is  neither  simple  nor  easy.  Leaves  of  Grass  is  a  picture 
of  the  world  as  seen  from  the  standpoint  of  the  highest  moral 
elevation  yet  reached.  It  is  at  the  same  time  an  exposition  of 
this  highest  moral  nature  itself.  The  real  difficulty  is  for  an 
ordinary  person  to  rise  to  this  spiritual  altitude.  Whoever  can 
do  so,  even  momentarily,  or  in  imagination,  will  never  cease  to 
thank  the  man  by  whose  aid  this  was  accomplished.  It  is  such 
assistance  which  Walt  Whitman  is  destined  to  give  to  large 
sections  of  the  human  race,  and  doubtless  it  is  this  which  he 
refers  to  in  the  following  passages : 

I  am  he  bringinsr  help  for  the  sick  as  they  pant  on  their  backs, 
And  for  strong  upright  men  I  bring  yet  more  needed  help. 

Behold,  T  do  not  give  lectures  or  a  little  charity. 
When  I  give  I  give  myself, 

I  bring  what  you  much  need  yet  always  have, 
Not  money,  amours,  dress,  eating,  erudition,  but  as  good, 
I  send  no  agent  or  medium,  offer  no  representative  of  value,  but  offer  the  value 
itself. 

For  I  myself  am  not  one  who  bestows  nothing  upon  man  and  woman, 
Ft)r  I  bestow  upon  any  man  or  woman  the  entrance  to  all  the  gifts  of  the  uni- 
verse. 

Now,  in  the  mouth  of  any  man  known  to  history,  with  very  few 
exceptions,  these  claims  would  be  ludicrous.  They  would  not, 
however,  have  been  ludicrous  if  we  suppose  them  made  by  such 


Analysis  of  his  Poetry.  179 

me.-i  ?.s  Siddhartha  Guatama,  Confucius,  Zoroaster,  or  Moham- 
med, for  these  men  did  as  far  as  it  was  possible  in  their  times  and 
lands  what  Walt  Whitman  in  these  verses  promises  to  do  now, — 
that  is,  they  bestowed  their  own  higher  natures  upon  all  who 
came  imder  their  influence,  gave  them  the  help  they  most  needed, 
and  opened  to  them  (the  best  gift  of  all)  the  way  to  a  higher 
spiritual  life.  They  made  such  claims,  and  fulfilled  them.  Walt 
Whitman  too  makes  them.  Can  he  fulfil  them?  I  say  he  has 
done  so,  and  that  he  will  do  so  throughout  the  future. 

But  let  us  examine  this  question  and  these  claims  a  little  more 
in  detail,  and  see  what  they  really  mean.     Whoever  will  consider 
them  will  see  that  they  all  amount  essentially  to  the  same  thing, 
which  is  a  promise  on  Walt  Whitman's  part  to  bestow  upon  any 
person  who  asks  it,  and  who  will  put  his  or  her  mind  in  full  re- 
lation with  the  poems,  moral  elevation.     In  other  words,  he  will 
give  to  such  person  a  greater  amount  of  faith,  a  greater  power 
of  affection,  and  will  consequently  reduce  in  that  person  the  lia- 
bility to,  and  the  capacity  of,  fear  and  hate.     Now,  love  and  faith 
are  the  elements  of  which  happiness  is  composed,  and  hute  and 
fear  (their  opposites)  are  the  elements  of  which  unhappiness  is 
composed.     If,  therefore,  Walt  Whitman  can  produce  in  us  moral 
elevation,  he  will  increase  our  true  happiness,  and  this,  to  my 
mind,  is  the  most  valuable  of  all  the  "gifts  of  the  universe,"  so 
far,  at   all   events,  as  we   know  at   present.      Again :   modern 
science  has  made  it  capable  of  proof  that  this  universe  is  so 
constructed  as  to  justify  on  our  part  love  and  faith,  and  not 
hate  and  fear.     For  this  reason,  the  man  who  has  in  his  com- 
position the  most  love  and  faith,  and  the  least  hate  and  fear, 
will  stand  (other  things  being  equal)  in  the  closest  relation  to 
universal  truth, — that  is,  he  will  be  the  wisest  man.     If,  then, 
Walt  Whitman  gives  us  moral  elevation,  he  will  also  give  wisdom, 
which,  it  seems  to  me,  is  clearly  another  of  the  chief  "gifts  of 
the  universe."    Yet  once  more :  conduct  flows  from  moral  nature. 
The  man  with  a  low  moral  nature  who  is  full  of  hate  and  fear, 
and  the  compounds  of  these,  such  as  envy  and  jealousy,  cannot 
possibly  live  a  beneficent  and  happy  life.     On  the  other  hand, 


i8o  IVa/i  Whitman. 

it  is  inconceivable  that  the  man  who  is  full  of  love  and  faith 
should,  on  the  whole,  live  a  bad  life.  So  that  moral  elevation, 
besidt?s  giving  us  happiness  and  wisdom,  gives  us  also  the  power 
and  inclination  to  lead  good  lives;  and  this,  I  should  say,  is  an- 
other "gift  of  the  universe"  really  worth  having,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  mere  wealth,  education,  social  position,  or  fame, 
which  the  current  standards  make  the  main  objects  of  existence. 

Let  us  not  forget  that  of  all  mental  qualities,  exceptional 
moral  elevation  is  the  hardest  to  see.  So  true  is  this,  that  in 
the  whole  history  of  our  race,  as  far  back  as  it  is  known,  every 
man,  without  one  exception,  who  has  stood  prominently  in 
advance  of  and  above  his  age  by  this  quality,  has  not  only  not 
been  considered  exceptionally  good,  but  has  been  in  every  in- 
stance looked  upon  by  the  majority  of  his  contemporaries  as  a 
bad  man,  and  has  been  consequently  traduced,  banished,  burned, 
poisoned,  or  crucified. 

In  philosophy,  science,  art,  religion,  men's  views,  their  ways  of 
looking  at  things,  are  constantly  altering.  And  it  is  equally  plain 
that  on  the  whole  they  are  altering  for  the  better — are  constantly 
acquiring  a  more  just  and  worthy  mental  attitude  towards  their 
surroundings,  towards  each  other,  and  towards  Nature.  This 
progiess  necessitates  the  constant  abandonment  of  old  ideas,  and 
the  constant  taking  up  of  new  inteUectual  and  moral  positions. 
These  successive  readjustments  are  always  the  cause  of  more  or 
less  social,  political,  and  literary  disturbance.  The  antagonism 
is  naturally  deeper  and  stronger  in  the  case  of  religious  and  social 
changes  than  new  departures  in  science,  philosophy,  or  art,  since 
in  religious  tenets  the  feelings  are  more  deeply  involved.  The 
men  who  initiate  such  readjustments  of  the  soul  of  man  to  its 
environment  are  the  master  minds  of  the  race.  These  are  the 
men  Walt  Whitman  calls  Poets.  He  says :  "  The  true  Poet  is 
not  the  follower  of  beauty,  but  the  august  master  of  beauty." 
That  is  to  say,  he  does  not  take  merely  the  matter  recognized  as 
beautiful  already  and  make  it  the  theme  of  his  verse,  or  amuse 
himself  and  his  readers  by  dressing  it  up  and  admiring  and  prais- 
ing it.  This,  in  the  language  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  is  the  office  of 
a  "singer,"  not  of  a  "Poet;"  to  do  this  is  to  be  a  follower  of 


Analysts  of /lis  Poetry,  l8l 

beauty.  But  the  Poet  is  the  master  of  beauty,  and  his  mastery 
consists  in  commanding  and  causing  things  which  were  not  be- 
fore considered  beautiful  to  become  so.  How  does  he  do  this? 
Before  this  question  can  be  answered  we  must  understand  why 
one  thing  is  beautiful  to  us  and  another  not — why  persons,  com- 
binations, etc.,  that  are  beautiful  to  one  are  often  not  so  to  an- 
other—and why  one  man  sees  so  much  beauty  in  the  world, 
another  so  little.  The  explanation  is,  that  beauty  and  love  are 
correlatives;  they  are  the  objective  and  subjective  aspects  of  the 
same  thing.  Beauty  has  no  existence  apart  from  love,  and  love 
has  no  existence  apart  from  beauty.  Beauty  is  the  shadow  of  love 
thrown  upon  the  outer  world.  We  do  not  love  a  person  or  thing 
because  the  person  or  thing  is  beautiful,  but  whatever  we  love, 
that  is  beautiful  to  us,  and  whatever  we  do  not  love,  is  not  beau- 
tiful. And  the  function  of  the  true  Poet  is  to  love  and  appre- 
ciate all  things,  nationalities,  laws,  combinations,  individuals. 
He  alone  illustrates  the  sublime  reality  and  ideality  of  that  verse 
of  Genesis,  how  God  after  His  entire  creation  looked  forth, 
-'and  pronounced  it  all  good."  A  parallel  statement  would  be 
true  of  Faith.  As  that  which  is  seen  from  without  inwards  is  love, 
and  seen  from  within  outwards  is  beauty,  so  that  which  seen 
from  without  inwards  is  faith,  is  goodness  when  seen  from  within 
outwards. 

The  human  race  began  by  fearing  or  distrusting  nearly  every- 
thing, and  trusting  almost  nothing;  and  this  is  yet  the  condition 
of  savages.  But  from  time  to  time,  men  arose  who  distrusted  and 
feared  less  and  less.  These  men  have  always  been  considered 
impious  by  those  about  them ;  but  for  all  that,  they  have  been 
the  saviors  and  progressists  of  the  race,  and  have  been  recognized 
as  such  when  their  views  and  feelings  penetrated  the  generations 
succeeding  them.  Such  evolution  has  always  been  going  on, 
and  will  continue.  So  far,  fear  has  been  a  part  of  every  accepted 
religion,  and  it  is  still  taught  that  to  destroy  fear  is  to  destroy 
religion.  But  if  faith  is  to  increase,  fear,  its  opposite,  must  con- 
tinually decrease  and  at  last  disappear.  Fear  is  the  basis  of 
superstition.    Faith,  its  opposite,  along  with  love,  is  the  basis  of 


iS2  .  Wa/t  Whitman, 

religion.  I  know  it  is  still  said  by  some  to-day  in  the  name  of 
religion,  that  men  should  hate  this  and  that — sin  for  instance, 
and  the  devil,  and  that  they  should  fear  certain  things,  such  as 
God  and  the  Judgment.  But  this  really  is  irreligion,  not  re- 
ligion. 

An  important  feature  of  Leaves  of  Grass  is  what  I  would  call 
its  continuity  or  endlessness.  It  does  not  teach  something,  and 
rest  there.  It  does  not  make,  in  morals  and  religion,  an  import- 
ant step  in  advance,  and  stop  satisfied  with  that.  It  has  unlimited 
vista.  It  clears  the  way  ahead,  with  allowance  and  provision  for 
new  advances  far,  far  beyond  anything  contained  in  itself.  It 
brings  no  one  to  "  a  terminus,"  nor  teaches  any  one  to  be  "con- 
tent and  full."  It  is  a  ceaseless  goad,  a  never-resting  spur.  To 
those  to  whom  it  speaks,  it  cries  continually,  forward  !  forward ! 
and  admits  of  no  pause  in  the  race.  A  second  trait  is  its  uni- 
versality. There  is  nothing  of  which  humanity  has  experience 
that  it  does  not  touch  upon  more  or  less  directly.  There  must 
have  been  a  deliberate  intention  on  the  part  of  the  author  to  give 
the  book  this  all-embracing  character,  and  no  doubt  that  was  one 
reason  for  the  catalogues  of  objects  in  a  few  of  the  poems  which 
have  so  irritated  the  critics.  I  have  often  tried  to  think  of  some- 
thing objective  or  subjective,  material  or  immaterial,  that  was 
not  taken  cognizance  of  by  Leaves  of  Grass,  but  always  failed. 
A  third  feature  is  the  manner  in  which  the  author  avoids  (either 
of  set  purpose,  or  more  likely  by  a  sure  instinct)  dealing  speci- 
fically with  any  topics  of  mere  class  or  ephemeral  interest 
(though  he  really  treats  these  too  through  the  bases  upon  which 
they  rest),  and  concerns  himself  solely  with  the  elementary 
subjects  of  human  life,  y/hich  must  necessarily  have  perennial 
interest. 

Leaves  of  Grass  is  curiously  a  different  book  to  each  reader. 
To  some,  its  merit  consists  in  the  keen  thought  which  pierces  to 
the  kernel  of  things — or  a  perpetual  and  sunny  cheeriness,  in 
which  respect  it  is  the  synonyme  of  pure  air  and  health;  to 
others  it  is  chiefly  valuable  as  being  full  of  pictorial  suggestions ; 
to  a  third  class  of  men  it  is  a  new  Gospel  containing  fresh  reve- 


Herald  of  a  new  Religions  Era,  .  183 

lations  of  divine  truth;  to  a  fourth  it  is  charged  with  ideas 
and  suggestions  in  practical  life  and  manners;  to  some  its  large, 
sv/eet,  clear,  animal  physiology  is  its  especial  charm;  to  some, 
the  strange  abysses  of  its  fervid  emotions.*  Upon  still  others 
(on  whom  it  produces  its  full  effect),  it  exerts  an  irresistible  and 
divine  power,  strengthening  and  elevating  their  lives  unspeak- 
ably, driving  them  from  all  meanness  and  toward  all  good,  giving 
them  no  rest,  but  compelling  them  to  watch  every  act,  word, 
thought,  feeling — to  guard  their  days  and  nights  from  v/eakness, 
baseness,  littleness,  or  impurity — at  the  same  time  giving  them 
extraordinary  power  to  accomplish  these  ends. 

There  is  still  another  class  (altogether  the  most  numerous  so 
far),  who  see  in  the  book  nothing  of  all  these  fine  things  or  good 
uses.  To  them  it  suggests  contempt  for  laws  and  social  forms, 
appears  coarse,  prosaic,  senseless,  full  of  impure  ideas,  and  as 
seeking  the  destruction  of  religion,  and  all  that  is  decent  in 
human  life.  If  men  were  really,  as  theologians  tell  us,  inclined 
by  Nature  to  evil,  I  could  imagine  Leaves  of  Grass  might  on 
the  whole  do  some  serious  harm.  But  since,  as  I  think  is  cer- 
tainly the  case,  (for  who  would  not  rather  be  healthy  than  sick? 
loved  than  hated  ?  happy  than  wretched  ?)  humanity  on  the  whole 
is  far  more  disposed  to  good  than  evil,  there  is  no  question  that 
whatever  stimulates  and  encourages  the  native  growth  and  inde- 
pendent vigor  of  the  mind,  as  it  does,  must  in  the  final  result  be 
beneficial. 

Leaves  of  Grass  belongs  to  a  religious  era  not  yet  reached,  of 
which  it  is  the  revealer  and  herald.  Toward  that  higher  social 
and  moral  level  the  race  was  inevitably  tending — and  thither, 
ev^-n  without  such  an  avant-courier,  it  would  still  eventually 
have  reached.  This  book,  however,  will  be  of  incalculable  as- 
sistance in  the  ascent.  As  John  Burroughs  has  suggested,  it 
may  have  to  wait  to  be  authoritatively  assigned  to  literature's 

♦  The  London  "Nineteenth  Century"  (December,  1882),  in  the  course  of  an  aiticle  on 
Walt  Whitman,  says,  "  He  has  a  power  ol  passionate  expression,  of  strong  and  simple  utter- 
ance of  the  deepest  tones  of  grief,  which  is  ahnost  or  altogether  without  its  counterpart  in  the 
world." 


184  ^^^^  Whitman. 

highest  rank,  first  by  the  lawgivers  of  the  Old  World,  before 
America  really  acknowledges  her  own  offspring  in  Walt  Whit- 
man's work.*  With  the  incoming  moral  state  to  which  it  be- 
longs, certain  cherished  social  and  religious  forms  and  usages  are 
incompatible ;  hence  the  deep  instinctive  aversion  and  dread 
with  which  it  is  regarded  by  the  ultra-conventional  and  con- 
servative. Just  so,  in  their  far-back  times,  was  Zoroastrianism, 
Buddhism,  Mohammedanism,  Christianity,  and  every  new  birth 
received.  Our  whole  theory  of  property,  of  individual  owner- 
ship (for  example)  is  by  implication  condemned  by  the  spirit 
of  the  book,  and  when  its  level  is  reached,  our  present  ideas 
and  practice  in  this  department  will  seem  as  backward  and  outr6 
as  the  ownership  and  transfer  of  one  man  by  another  seems 
to  us  now.  So  also  our  church-going,  bible-reading,  creeds, 
and  prayers,  will  appear  from  its  vantage-ground  mere  make-be- 
lieves of  religion,  hollow  shells  whose  kernels  have  long  since 
imperceptibly  mouldered  into  dust.  So  does  one  birth  of  Time 
succeed  another.  So  is  it  still  as  ever  true  that  the  gods  are  de- 
voured by  their  own  children — that  what  the  deepest  and  holiest 
heart-throbs  of  the  race  have  brought  into  being,  is  again  succes- 
sively overwhelmed  and  destroyed  by  the  legitimate  offspring  of 
those  same  spiritual  impulses. 

Every  marked  rise  in  the  moral  nature,  when  it  has  become 
diffused  over  broad  sections  of  the  race,  necessitates  and  inspires 
as  its  accompaniment,  new  manners,  new  social  forms,  new  poli- 
tics, new  philosophies,  new  literatures,  and  above  all,  new  reli- 
gious forms.  For  moral  elevation  is  the  mainspring  of  all  these, 
and  of  the  world's  progress — the  rising  tide  upon  which  float  all 
the  fleets  and  argosies,  as  well  as  all  the  driftwood  and  foam. 


*  The  Lomlon  "  Nineteenth  Century  "  ot"  December,  1882,  already  alluded  to,  says  :  "  The 
mass  of  his  countrymen  were  not  and  are  not  strong  enough  to  accept  him.  They  have  perhaps 
too  little  cunlidence  in  their  own  literary  originality  to  apprciate  duly  one  from  among 
tliunihclves  who  breaks  through  all  the  conventional  usages  of  literature  ;  they  have  too  nuich 
scjutaniish  delicacy  to  admit  to  their  society  one  who  is  so  brutally  outspoken  and  unrefined. 
It  is  necessary  perhaps  that  this  writer,  for  we  need  not  be  zealous  to  claitn  for  him  the  title 
of  poet,  shoidd  be  first  accepted  in  the  Old  World  before  he  can  be  recognized  by  the  New, 
which  at  present  can  see  nothing  in  literature  but  by  rellectcd  light.  Strange  irony  of  fate, 
if  such  should  be  the  dcr.tiiiy  of  one  who  cast  off  the  conventional  forms,  in  order  to  free  him- 
self and  his  country  from  Uld-World  inlluences  I" 


K.:  poems  "the  Bible  of  Democracy.'*  185 

the  ascending  sap  which  vitalizes  all  the  fruit  of  human  life. 
Leaves  of  Grass  is  the  initiative  of  such  a  rise,  the  preface  and 
creator  of  a  new  era.  This  old  world  has  seen  many  such  new 
departures,  and  is  to  see  many  more  before  it  is  done.  They 
have  always  been  begun  by  one  man,  embodying  what  suspends 
in  nebulous  forms  through  the  humanity  of  the  time,  and  from 
him  have  spread  more  or  less  over  the  earth's  surface.  And  for 
their  basis  these  movements  have  had  invariably,  since  the  inven- 
tion of  writing,  and  in  some  instances  before  that  time,  a  book,  to 
embody  themselves  and  radiate  from.  Leaves  of  Grass  is  such 
a  book.  What  the  Vedas  were  to  Brahman  ism,  the  Law  and  the 
Prophets  to  Judaism,  the  Avesta  and  Zend  to  Zoroastrianism, 
the  Kings  to  Confucianism  and  Taoism,  the  Pitakas  to  Buddhism, 
the  Gospels  and  Pauline  writings  to  Christianity,  the  Quran  to 
Mohammedanism,  will  Leaves  of  Grass  be  to  the  future  of  Amer- 
ican civilization.  Those  were  all  Gospels;  they  all  brought  good 
news  to  man,  fitting  his  case  at  the  period,  each  in  its  way  and 
degree.  They  were  all  '*  hard  sayings  "  and  the  rankest  heresy 
at  first,  just  as  Leaves  of  Grass  is  now.  By  and  by  it  too  will  be 
received,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  hundred  years,  more  or  less, 
do  its  work  and  become  commonplace  like  the  rest.  Then  new 
Gospels  will  be  written  upon  a  still  higher  plane. 

In  the  mean  time,  Leaves  of  Grass  is  the  bible  of  Democracy, 
containing  the  highest  exemplar  of  life  yet  furnished,  and  suited 
to  the  present  age  and  to  America.  Within  it  is  folded  (as  the 
oak  in  the  acorn,  or  the  man  in  the  new-born  babe)  a  new  spirit- 
ual life  for  myriads  of  men  and  women. 

Very  few  people  have  any  conception  what  such  books  are  to 
those  who  first  receive  them — what  enthusiasm  and  devotion 
they  inspire — what  reckless  abandonment  to  the  new  feeling  of 
spiritual  exaltation  they  kindle — how  they  absorb  all  life,  and 
make  the  old  worldly  interests  poor  and  contemptible — how  they 
light  up  new  joys,  and  end  by  placing  existence  on  a  higher 
plane.  As  few  to-day  realize  this,  though  they  have  heard  and 
read  of  it  all  their  lives,  so  no  one,  except  those  who  have  felt 
it,  can  realize  what  Leaves  of  Grass  is  to  the  first  men  and  women 
who  experience  its  power. 


1 86  WaU  Whitman. 

Then  from  a  merely  literary,  technical,  pictorial  point  of  view, 
where  else  are  so  depicted  in  living  words  the  complex  storms  of 
action  in  the  midst  of  which  we  of  the  Nineteenth  century  live 
— the  trains  on  the  railways,  the  steam  and  sail  ships  and  their 
cargoes,  the  myriads  of  factories,  the  interminable  stretches  of 
cultivated  land,  the  towns  and  villages,  with  thousands  of  throb- 
bing lives — curious  flashes  of  the  life  of  wildest  Nature  (as  in 
"The  Man-of-war  Bird  "*) — the  geography  of  the  globe,  the 
diverse  races,  circumstances,  employments — fraternal  love  and 
fratricidal  strife — the  arming  for  the  war,  1861-65,  t^^  fields  of 
battle,  victory,  defeat,  the  heaped  burial  trenches,  the  hospitals 
filled  with  mangled  and  maimed,  the  final  disbandment  of  the 
soldiers — the  scenery  of  a  Continent,  its  rivers,  lakes,  bays,  prai- 
ries, mountains,  forests,  the  crags  and  ravines  of  Colorado  and 
California,  the  vast  fertile  spread  of  the  Prairie  States,  the  snows 
and  wildernesses  of  the  North,  the  warm  bayous  and  lagoons  of 
the  South,  the  great  cities  to  the  East — all  the  shows  of  the  sea, 
of  the  sky,  of  the  seasons — sexual  passions,  religious  mystery,  the 
records  of  the  past,  the  facts  of  the  present,  the  hopes  of  the 
future — the  splendors  of  life,  the  equal  splendors  of  death — all 
the  speculations  and  imaginations  of  nan,  all  the  thoughts  of  his 
composite  mi  J,  all  the  visions  of  h'"  dreaming  soul,  all  the  beats 
of  his  great  heart,  all  the  works  of  his  giant  hands — the  seething 
crowds,  the  passionate  longings  of  men  and  women  everywhere, 
their  fervor  and  their  ceaseless  striving,  their  intense  egoism  and 
eqtially  intense  sympathy,  the  attractions  and  repulsions  that  sway 
them  from  moment  to  moment,  the  contradictory  forces  that 
dwell  in  every  soul,  the  passion  and  energy  of  the  globe.  For 
all  these — not  in  polished  literary  descriptions,  but  with  their 
own  life  and  heat  and  action — make  up  Leaves  of  Grass.  Its 
themes  and  treatment,  so  august,  bO  complex  (yet  uniform),  so 
tremendous,  how  curious  it  is  to  see  the  book  sneered  at  for 
"  want  of  form."     Criticism  of  it  from  such  point  of  view  were 

*  There  is  a  bit  of  literary  history  about  this  piece.  It  was  sent  to  tlic  American  maga- 
zines— first  to  "  Scribner's,"  by  whom  it  was  returned  with  a  contemptuous  note  from  tlie 
principal  editor.  Then  tu,  and  rejected  by,  one  after  another  of  nearly  all  the  principal 
iuoutulics.  Then  to  London  to  the  "  Atheiiscum,"  promptly  accepted,  paid  for,  and  pub- 
lished. 


He  Exalts  the  Commonest  Life,  187 

a  senseless  waste  of  time.  Its  form  will  be  unprecedently  beau- 
tiful to  all  who  know  its  spirit,  and  to  those  who  do  not,  it  is  a 
matter  of  no  consequence.  The  function  of  first-class  works  is 
not  to  follow  forms  already  instituted,  but  to  institute  new  forms, 
"He  who  would  achieve  the  greatest  production  of  art,"  said 
Voltaire,  ''must  be  the  pupil  of  his  own  genius."  The  language 
in  which  a  book  is  written  will  never  finally  save  or  condemn  it ; 
only  the  soul  of  the  book  counts,  nothing  else  is  of  any  lasting  con- 
sequence. The  three  first  Gospels  were  chiefly  written  by  quite 
illiterate  people,  and  they  have  no  pretensions  at  all  to  "  style." 
St.  Paul's  epistles  were  written  in  very  bad  Greek,  and  had  per- 
haps still  less  pretension  to  mere  literary  excellence.  But  in  those 
books  lived  and  through  them  shone  the  Soul  of  a  Divine  Man. 
How  many  hundred  tons  of  classically  correct  poems,  essays, 
speeches,  letters,  and  dramas  have  they  outlived  !  and  how  many 
will  they  still  outlive  !  Walt  Whitman  will  endure,  not  as  having 
reached  or  conformed  to  any  existing  standard,  but  as  having  set 
one  up. 

Other  first-class  poets  possess  a  mental  scope  and  grandeur 
that  dwarf  ordinary  humanity,  and  intimate  existences  higher 
than  those  of  earth.  They  excite  in  us  admiration  and  wonder, 
give  us  glimpses  of  celestial  beauty  and  joy,  but  leave  us  in- 
trinsically as  we  were — or  perhaps  fill  us  with  pain  at  our  own 
inherent  littleness.  While  no  reader  of  Leaves  of  Grass  (once 
entering  their  meaning  and  influence)  fails  to  absorb  every  piece, 
every  page,  every  line,  as  intensely  his — how  strangely  different, 
in  their  effect,  the  hitherto  accepted  poems !  We  revel  amid 
the  beauty,  fulness,  majesty  and  art,  of  the  plots  and  personages 
of  the  "Iliad,"  "Odyssey,"  or  "/Eneid,"  or  in  Shakespeare's 
immortal  plays,  or  Spenser  or  Milton,  or  "La  Legendcs  des 
Siecles,"  or  Goethe's  masterpieces,  or  Tennyson's  "Idyls." 
With  them  the  reader  passes  his  time  as  in  sumptuous  dreams 
or  feasts,  far  from  this  miserable  every-day  world,  man's  actual 
and  vulgar  experience,  one's  own  sphere.  He  enjoys  those  in- 
comparable works  like  some  sweet,  and  deep,  and  beautiful  in- 
toxication. But  a  mortifying  and  meagre  consciousness  inva- 
riably follows.      Not  for  him  the  stage  where  Achilles   and 


1 88  Walt  Whitman. 

Coriolanus  and  Lancelot  so  grandly  tread.  He  himself  dwin- 
dles to  a  mere  nothing  in  comparison  with  such  exceptional 
types  of  humanity.  However  splendid  the  pageant  and  the 
shows  of  the  march,  a  latent  humiliation  brings  up  the  rear. 
Was  it  not  time  one  should  arise  to  show  that  a  (qw  selected 
warriors  and  heroes  of  the  past,  even  the  gods,  have  not  mo- 
nopolized and  devoured  (nay,  have  hardly  entered  into)  the 
grandeur  of  the  universe,  or  of  life  and  action,  or  of  poems? 
arise  to  "shake  out,"  for  common  readers,  farmers,  mechanics, 
laborers,  "carols  stronger  and  haughtier  than  have  ever  yet 
been  heard  upon  the  earth  "  ?  Well  did  Thoreau,  after  reading 
and  visiting  Walt  Whitman,  hit  the  centre  of  the  matter  by  ex- 
claiming **Zr<?  is  Democracy.^*  For  what  possible  service  in  that 
department  so  great  as  to  practically  demonstrate  to  each  of 
the  countless  mass  of  common  lives  that  its  scope  and  sphere 
are  as  divine,  as  heroic,  as  illuminated,  as  "eligible,"  as  any? 
As  pure  air,  wholesome  food,  clear  water,  sunshine,  pass  into 
and  become  the  life  of  the  body,  so  do  these  Leaves  interpene- 
trate and  nourish  the  soul  that  is  fitted  to  receive  them.  The 
others  stand  outside  our  identty;  this  poet  comes  within,  and 
interfuses  and  incorporates  his  life  with  each  of  us.  We  share 
his  health,  strength,  savage  freedom,  fierce  self-assertion,  fearless- 
ness, tamelessness.  We  take  part  in  his  large,  rugged  humanity, 
his  tender  love  and  steadfast  faith.  The  others  are  for  hours  of 
clearness  and  calm.  He  suits  equally  well  (perhaps  better)  with 
worry,  hard  work,  illness,  and  affliction.  Every -day  lives,  com- 
mon employments,  become  illustrious.  For  you,  "whoever  you 
are,"  the  past  has  been,  the  present  exists,  and  the  future  will 
exist. 

A  word,  (I  ought  to  have  given  it  farther  back)  as  to  the 
curious  catalogue  character,  so  hesitatingly  dwelt  on  by  not  a 
few — even  by  Emerson.  The  latter  wrote  to  Carlyle,  sending 
him  an  e&xXy  Leaves  of  Grass,  in  1856:  "If,  on  reading,  you 
think  its  pages  the  catalogue  of  an  auctioneer,  you  can  light  your 
pipe  with  them."  The  book  is  doubtless  open  to  a  charge  of 
the  kind.  Only  it  is  as  if  the  primary  Creator  were  the  '"auc- 
tioneer," and  the  spirit  in  which  the  lists  are  made  out  is  the 


A  Thought,  reading  the  Biblic  Poems.  189 

motif  of  all  vitality,  all  form.  Or,  a  new  Adam,  in  a  modern  and 
more  complex  Paradise,  here  gives  names  to  everything — to  me- 
chanics' trades,  tools — to  our  own  days,  and  their  commonest 
objects. 

In  still  hours,  reading  the  biblic  poems  of  the  ages,  and  en- 
tirely possessed  with  them,  flits  through  the  brain  the  phantom 
thought  that  in  the  impalpable  atmosphere  of  those  poems'  ex- 
pression and  endeavor,  man's  ultimata  are  involved  ;  and  all  the 
rest,  however  multitudinous,  is  only  preparation  and  accessory. 

I  have  been  so  occupied  with  the  features  portrayed  through 
the  preceding  pages  that  I  have  said  nothing  on  a  point,  or  series, 
partly  personal,  by  no  means  least  in  giving  character  to  Walt 
Whitman  and  his  works.  His  position  in  the  history  of  his 
country  is  a  peculiar  one.  Receiving  the  traditions  of  Washing- 
ton from  men  who  had  seen  and  talked  with  that  great  chieftain 
— of  the  old  Revolutionary  War  from  those  who  had  been  part 
of  it — as  a  little  boy,  held  in  the  arms  of  Lafayette,  and  his 
childish  lips  warmly  pressed  with  a  kiss  from  the  French  warrior 
— his  youth  passed  amid  the  scenes  and  reminiscences  of  the 
gloomy  Battle  of  Brooklyn — the  direct  memories  of  that  whole 
contest,  of  the  adoption  of  the  American  Constitution,  of  the 
close  of  the  last  century,  and  of  Jefferson,  Adams,  Paine,  and 
Hamilton,  saturating,  as  it  were,  his  early  years — he  brings  on 
and  connects  that  receding  time  with  the  Civil  War  of  i86i-'65 
— with  the  persons  and  events  of  our  own  age — with  Lincoln, 
Grant,  Sherman,  Lee,  the  Emancipation  Proclamation,  the  fights 
around  Richmond,  and  the  surrender  at  Appomattox.  Then, 
the  Secession  War  over,  he  merges  it,  or  at  least  the  spirit  of  it, 
in  oblivion.  The  brotherhood  of  the  States  re-united,  now  in- 
dissolubly,  he  chants  a  tender  and  equal  sorrow  for  the  Southern 
as  for  the  Northern  dead — in  one  of  his  last  utterances  passion- 
ately invoking  the  Muse,  through  himself,  in  their  behalf: 

Give  me  exhaustlcss,  make  me  a  fountain, 

Tliat  1  exhale  love  from  me  wherever  I  go,  like  a  moist  perennial  clew, 

For  the  ashes  of  all  dead  soldiers  South  or  North. 


190  Wa/t  Whitman. 

Uhdl  a  long  period  elapses  few  will  know  what  the  pages 
of  Leaves  of  Grass  bestow  on  America.  Granting  all  its  un- 
precedented thrift  and  material  power,  the  question  arises  to 
serious  inquiry,  Is  the  New  World  Republic  actually  a  success  on 
any  but  lower  grounds?  Is  there  not,  to  its  heart-action  and 
blood-circulation  to-day,  a  profound  danger,  a  pervading  lack  of 
something  to  be  supplied,  without  which  its  richest  and  amplest 
fruits  will  continually  turn  to  ashes?  It  is  in  response  to  such 
inquiry,  and  supply  to  such  deficiency  (or  rather  to  suggest 
the  means  of  every  man  supplying  it  within  himself,  and  as  part 
of  himself)  I  consider  Walt  Whitman's  life  and  poems  un- 
speakably important. 


APPENDIX 

TO  PART  II. 


CONTEMPORANEOUS  NOTICES 

1855  ^°  1883. 


(  S90 


SELECTIONS  FROM  CONTEMPORANEOUS  CRITI- 
CISMS, LETTERS,  NEWSPAPER  NOTICES,  ETC, 
AMERICAN  AND  FOREIGN. 


To  recover  what  was  distinctively  said  of  any  important  past  event  or 
person,  at  the  time  of  his  or  its  advent — what  ,  he  wise  ones  had  to  predict 
— would  it  not  indeed  afford  lessons  of  tlie  deepest,  sometimes  of  an  un- 
questionably comic,  significance?  Judgments  formed  of  men  by  their  con- 
temporaries have  also  a  certain  mterest  apart  from  thtir  individual  trutli  or 
falsity;  for  it  was  true  at  least  that  such  things  were  thought  of  the  man. 
Considered  in  this  way,  the  opinions  about  Walt  Whitman  have  a  value,  and, 
as  I  think,  a  great  value,  in  the  estimaticm  of  his  character.  At  any  rate, 
there  is  the  refracted  light — and  future  ages  may  estimate  no  more  powerful 
one — which  a  majority  of  the  criticisms  of  the  Nineteenth  century  on  Leaves 
of  Grass  pour  over  the  criticisers  themselves,  and  the  society  and  times  whose 
impressions  they  utter. 

One  thing  to  be  remarked,  on  the  least  attempt  at  massing  the  collection, 
is  the  extent  and  number  of  European  notices  of  the  poems  and  their  author, 
often  at  great  length  and  much  detail,  contrasted  by  comparc^dve  silence  in 
leading  American  quarters,  the  monthlies  and  quarterlies.  About  all  the  atten- 
tion to  the  book  during  the  last  two  years,  from  these  latter  authorities  (though 
the  newspaper  press  has  been  copious),  consists,  for  example,  in  this  precious 
judgment  of  three  lines,  at  the  close  of  its  critical  budget  in  "  Harper's 
Monthly,"  January,  1882,  describing  the  final  edition  of  the  poems  as  "a  con- 
geries of  bizarre  rhapsodies  that  are  neither  sane  verse  nor  intelligible  prose, 
Lj'  Walt  Whitman,  entitled  Leaves  of  Grass."  In  the  British  Islands  and 
cities,  London,  Edinburgh,  and  Dublin,  the  poet  has  a  far  more  settled  status, 
if  not  more  appreciative  readers,  than  in  his  own  country.  The  "  London 
Times,"  in  its  mention  of  him,  while  it  does  not  indorse  or  eiilogize  his 
works,  always  speaks  of  him  with  entire  respect,  admitting  that  he  is  the  only 
American  poet,  native  and  democratic.  Though  not  yet  jjopularly  read 
on  the  European  continent,  he  is  often  noticed,  welct)med,  sometimes  trans- 
lated, in  German,  Hungarian,  Danish,  and  Italian  periodicals.  The  Russian 
•' Zagranitschuy  Viestnik"  (Foreign  Messenger),  .St.  Petersburg  monthly,  in 
one  of  its  1882  numbers,  has  a  long  article  on  American  literature,  nearly  a 
quarter  being  devoted  to  high  and  appreciative  eomments  on  Leaves  of  Grass 

17  (  193  ) 


194  Appendix  to  Part  IT. 

and  its  author.  For  the  guidance  of  those  who  may  desire  to  further  pursue 
this  branch  of  inquiry,  I  give  a  list  of  some  of  these  past  and  late  statements 
and  sources : 

Leaves  of  Grass  Imprints,  Thayer  &  Eldridge.  Boston,  i860.  64  pages, 
l6mo. 

Notes  on  Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and  Person.  By  John  Burroughs.  Sec- 
ond edition.     126  pages,  i2mo.     J.  S.  Redlield.     New  V'ork.  187 1. 

Walt  Wliitman.  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes."  Paris,  June  I,  1872.  By  Th. 
Bentzon. 

Walt  Whitman,  the  Poet  of  Joy.  By  Arthur  Clive.  "  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine."    London,  December,  1875. 

The  Poetry  of  Democracy  :  Walt  Whitman.  "  Studies  in  Literature."  By 
Prof.  Edward  Dowden.     London,  1878. 

The  Flight  of  the  Eagle.  "  Birds  and  Poets."  By  John  Burroughs.  Bos- 
ton :  Houghton  &  Mifflin,  1878. 

Walt  Whitman.  "  Scribner's  Monthly."  New  York,  November,  1880.  By 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

Walt  Whitman.  "  Buster  og  Masker."  By  Rudolf  Schmidt.  Copenhagen, 
1882. 

Walt  Whitman.  "  Nineteenth  Century."  London,  December,  1882.  By  G. 
C.  Macaulay. 

Walt  Wliitman.  "  Sonntagsblalt  der  New-Yorker  Staats-Zeitung."  Decem- 
ber, 1882.     Three  numbers.     By  Dr.  Karl  Knortz. 

Regarding  the  excerpts  that  follow,  it  will  be  seen  at  the  first  glance  that  their 
verdicts,  both  pro  and  con,  are  of  the  very  strongest.  How  can  such  extremely 
contradictory  opinions  and  feelings  be  explained  ?  Perhaps  it  is  best  to  let 
each  find  a  solution  for  himself,  or  simply  leave  the  whole  matter  to  be  settled, 
by  time.  One  thing  may,  however,  be  said,  that  if  Walt  Whitman  is  really 
the  sort  of  man  and  poet  his  opponents  say,  it  would  be  impossible  to  account 
for  the  feeling  entertained  and  the  view  taken  by  his  disciples.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  his  friends  are  right  in  their  estimation  of  him,  there  is  no  difficulty 
at  all  in  accounting  both  for  the  intense  antipathy  felt  toward  the  man  and 
the  falsehoods  circulated  about  him,  and  for  the  extreme  hostility  with  which 
Leaves  of  Grass  has  been  received.  Then  a  fact  of  no  small  significance : 
It  is  plain  to  those  who  have  watched  the  currents  and  utterances  excited  by 
the  poet  and  his  works,  that  the  opposition  to  them  (though  still  strong  and 
active,  as  it  is  no  doubt  best  it  should  be)  is  steadily  declining,  while  appre- 
ciation of  both  is  broadening  and  deepening  every  day. 

The  excerpts  are  collected  at  random ;  they  are  made  more  for  the  future 
than  the  present.  To  have  been  exact,  the  objurgatory  notices  ought  to  have 
occupied  three-fourths  of  the  collection.  I  give  enough,  however,  to  show 
the  animus  of  all ;  then  devote  the  rest  to  further  illustration  of  the  idea  and 
purpose  out  of  v/hich  my  book  has  arisen. 


Initials  and  Outlines — Brooklyn.  195 

From  thf  Brooklyn  "  Daily  TimesJ''  September  2g,  fSjJ. 

Walt  Whitman,  A  Brooklyn  Boy.  Lenses  of  Grass:  (a  volume  of 
Poems,  just  published.) — To  j^ive  judfjmcnt  on  real  poems,  one  needs  an  ac- 
count of  the  poet  himself.  Very  devilish  to  some,  and  very  divine  to  some, 
will  appear  these  new  poems,  the  Leaves  of  Grass  ;  an  attempt,  as  they  are, 
of  a  live,  naive,  masculine,  tenderly  affectionate,  ro\vdyi>h,  contemplative, 
sensual,  moral,  susceptible  and  imperious  person,  to  cast  into  literature  not 
only  his  own  grit  and  arrogance,  but  his  own  flesh  and  form,  undraped, 
regardless  of  foreign  models,  regardless  of  modesty  or  law,  and  ignorant  or 
silently  scornful,  as  at  first  appears,  of  all  except  his  own  presence  and  experi- 
ence, and  all  outside  of  the  fiercely  loved  land  of  his  birth,  and  the  birth  of 
his  parents  and  their  parents  for  several  generations  before  him.  Politeness 
this  man  has  none,  and  regulation  he  has  none.  The  effects  he  produces  are 
no  effects  of  artists  or  the  arts,  but  effects  of  the  original  eye  or  arm,  or  the 
actual  atmosphere  or  grass  or  briite  or  bird.  You  may  feel  the  unconscious 
teaching  of  the  presence  of  some  fine  animal,  but  will  never  feel  the  teaching 
of  the  fine  writer  or  speaker. 

Other  poets  cele!)rate  great  events,  personages,  romances,  wars,  loves,  pas- 
sions, the  victories  and  power  of  their  country,  or  some  real  or  imagined 
incident — and  polish  their  work,  and  come  to  conclusions,  and  satisfy  the 
reader.  This  poet  celebrates  himself,  and  that  is  the  way  he  celebrates  all. 
He  comes  to  no  conclusions,  and  does  not  satisfy  the  reader.  He  certainly 
leaves  him  what  the  serpent  left  the  woman  and  the  man,  the  taste  of  the  tree 
of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  never  to  be  erased  again. 

What  good  is  it  to  argue  about  egotism  ?  There  can  be  no  two  thoughts  on 
Walt  Whitman's  egotism.  That  is  what  he  steps  out  of  the  crowd  and  turns 
and  faces  them  for.  Mark,  critics!  for  otherwise  is  not  used  for  you  the  key 
that  leads  to  the  use  of  the  other  keys  to  this  well-enveloped  yet  terribly  in 
earnest  man.  His  whole  work,  his  life,  manners,  friendships,  writing,  all 
have  among  their  leading  purposes  an  evident  purpose,  as  strong  and  avowed 
as  any  of  the  rest,  to  stamp  a  new  type  of  character,  namely  his  own,  and 
indelibly  fix  it  and  publish  it,  not  for  a  model  but  an  illustration,  for  the  present 
and  future  of  American  letters  and  American  young  men,  for  the  South  the 
same  as  the  North,  and  for  the  Pacific  and  Mississippi  country,  and  Wis- 
consin and  Texas  and  Canada  and  Havana,  just  as  much  as  New  York  and 
Boston.  Whatever  is  needed  toward  this  achievement  he  puts  his  hand  to, 
and  lets  imputations  take  their  time  to  die. 

First  be  yourself  what  you  would  show  in  your  poem — such  seems  to  be 
this  man's  example  and  inferred  rebuke  to  the  schools  of  poets.  He  makes 
no  allusions  to  books  or  writers ;  their  spirits  do  not  seem  to  have  touched 
him  ;  he  has  not  a  word  to  say  for  or  against  them,  or  their  theories  or  ways. 
He  never  offers  others;  what  he  continually  offers  is  the  man  whom  our 
Brooklynites  know  so  well.  Of  American  breed,  of  reckless  health,  his  body 
perfect,  free  from  taint  from  top  to  toe,  free  forever  from  headache  and  dys- 
pepsia, full-blooded,  six  feet  high,  a  good  feeder,  never  once  using  medicine, 
drinking  water  only — a  swimmer  in  the  river  or  bay  or  by  the  seashore— of 
straight  attitude  and  slow  movement  of  foot — an  indescribable  style  evincing 
indifference  and  disdain — ample  limbed,  weight  a  hundred  and  eighty-five 
pounds,  age  thirty-six  years  [1S55] — never  dressed  in  black,  always  dressed 
freely  and  clean  in  strong  clothes,  neck  open,  shirt-collar  flat  and  broad, 
countenance  of  swarthy  transparent  red,  beard  short  and  well  mottled  with 
white,  hair  like  hay  after  it  has  been  mowed  in  the  field  and  lies  tossed  and 
streaked — face  not  refined  or  intellectual,  but  calm  and  wholesome — a  face 
of  an  unaffected  animal — a  face  that  absorbs  the  sunshine  and  meets  savage 


196  Appendix  to  Part  II, 

or  gentleman  on  equal  terms— a  face  of  one  who  eatR  and  drinl<s  and  is  a 
brawny  lover  and  embracer— a  face  of  undying  friendship  and  indulgence 
towarii  men  and  women,  and  of  one  wiio  iinds  the  same  returned  many  fold 
— a  face  with  two  gray  eyes  wliere  passion  and  hauteur  sleep,  and  melancholy 
stands  beliind  them— a  spirit  that  mixes  clieerfully  witii  the  world— a  person 
sinL;ularly  beloved  and  welcomed,  especially  by  young  men  and  mechanics — 
one  who  has  firm  attachments  there,  and  associates  there— one  who  does  not 
associate  with  literary  and  elegant  people— one  of  the  two  men  sauntering 
along  the  street  with  their  arms  over  each  other's  shoulders,  his  companion 
some  boatman  or  ship-joiner,  or  from  the  hunting-tent  or  kunber-raft— one 
who  has  that  quality  of  attracting  the  best  out  of  people  that  they  present  to 
him  none  of  their  meaner  and  stingier  traits,  but  always  their  sweetest  and 
most  generous  traits— a  man  never  called  upon  to  make  speeches  at  public 
dinners,  never  on  platforms  amid  the  crowds  of  clergymen,  or  professors,  or 
aldermen,  or  Congressmen— rather  down  in  the  bay  with  pilots  in  their  pilot 
boats— or  off  on  a  cruise  with  fishers  in  a  fishing  smack — or  witii  a  band  of 
laughers  and  roughs  in  the  streets  of  the  city  or  the  open  grounds  of  the 
country— fond  of  New  York  and  Brooklyn— fond  of  the  life  of  the  wharves 
and  the  great  ferries,  or  along  Broadway,  observing  the  endless  wonders  of 
that  thoroughfare  of  the  world — one  whom,  if  you  would  meet,  you  need  not 
expect  to  meet  an  extraordinary  person— one  in  whom  you  will  see  the  singu- 
larity which  consists  in  no  singularity — whose  contact  is  no  dazzling  fascina- 
tion, nor  requires  any  deference,  l)ut  has  the  easy  fascination  of  what  is 
homely  and  accustomed — of  something  you  knew  before,  and  was  waiting  for 
—of  natural  pleasures,  and  well-known  places,  and  welcome  familiar  faces— 
perhaps  of  a  remembrance  of  your  brother  or  motlier,  or  friend  away  or  dead 
—there  you  have  Walt  Whitman,  the  begetter  of  a  new  offspring  out  of  litera- 
ture, <  ddng  with  easy  nonchalance  the  chances  of  its  present  recejition,  and, 
through  all  misunderstandings  and  distrusts,  the  chances  of  its  future  recep- 
tion. 

From  "  The  Critic^'  London,  England,  /SjS- 

We  should  have  passed  over  this  book,  Leaves  of  Grass,  with  indignant 
contempt,  had  not  some  few  Transatlantic  criiics  attemjited  to  "  fix''  this  Walt 
Whitman  as  the  poet  who  shall  give  a  new  and  independent  literature  to 
America — who  shall  form  a  race  of  poets  as  Hanipio's  issue  formed  a  line  of 
kings.  Is  it  possilde  that  the  most  prudish  nation  in  the  world  will  adopt  a 
poet  whose  indecencies  stink  in  the  nostrils?  We  hope  not ;  and  yet  there 
is  a  probability,  and  we  will  show  why,  that  this  Walt  Whitman  will  not  meet 
with  the  stern  rebuke  which  he  so  richly  deserves.  America  has  felt,  oftener 
perhaps  than  we  hav«  declared,  that  she  has  no  national  poet — that  each  one 
of  her  children  of  song  has  relied  too  much  on  European  inspirations,  and 
clung  too  fervently  to  the  old  conventionalities.  It  is  therefore  not  unlikely 
that  she  mayl)elieve  in  the  dawn  of  a  thoroughly  original  literature,  now  there 
has  arisen  a  man  who  scorns  the  Hellenic  deities,  who  has  no  belief  in,  perhaps 
because  he  has  no  knowledge  of,  Homer  and  Shakespeare;  who  relies  on  his 
own  rugged  nature,  and  trusts  to  his  own  rugged  language,  being  himself 
what  he  shows  in  his  poems.  Once  transfix  him  as  the  genesis  c;  a  new  era, 
and  the  manner  of  the  man  may  l)e  forgiven  or  forgotten.  Hut  \.hat  claim  has 
this  Walt  Whitman  to  be  thus  considered,  or  to  be  considered  a  poet  at  all  ? 
We  grant  freely  enough  that  he  has  a  strong  relish  for  Nature  anil  freedom, 
just  as  an  animal  has;  nay,  further,  that  his  crude  mind  is  capable  of  appre- 
ciating some  of  Nature's  beauties;  but  it  by  no  means  follows  that,  because 


1856 — Emerson  to  Carlyle.  197 

Nature  is  excellent,  therefore  art  is  contemptible.  Walt  Whitman  is  as  unac- 
quainted with  art,  as  a  hog  is  with  mathematics.  His  poems — we  must  call 
them  so  for  convenience — twelve  in  number,  are  innocent  of  rhytlim,  and 
resemble  nothing  so  much  as  the  war-cry  of  tlic  Rcil  Indians.  Indeed,  Walt 
Wliitman  has  had  near  and  ainjile  opportunities  u{  studying  the  vociferations 
of  a  few  amiable  savaj^es.  Or  rather,  jicrhnps,  this  Wail  Wliitman  reniindj 
us*of  Caliban  tlini^ing  down  his  logs,  and  setting  himself  to  write  a  poem.  In 
fact,  Caliban,  and  not  Walt  Whitman,  might  have  written  this: 

I  too  am  not  a  bit  tamed— I  too  am  untranslatable, 

I  sound  my  barbaric  yatvp  over  the  roofs  of  the  world. 

Is  this  man  with  the  "barbaric  yawp"  to  push  Longfellow  into  the  shade, 
and  he  meanwhile  to  stand  and  "make  mouths"  at  the  sun?  The  chance  of 
this  might  be  formidable  were  it  not  ridiculous.  That  object  or  that  act  which 
mo't  develops  the  ridiculous  element  carries  in  its  bosom  the  seeds  of  decay, 
and  is  wholly  powerless  to  trample  out  of  Cod's  universe  one  spark  of  the 
beautiful.  We  do  not,  then,  fear  this  Walt  Whitman,  who  gives  us  slang  in 
the  place  of  melody,  and  rowdyism  in  the  place  of  regularity.  The  depth  of 
his  indecencies  will  be  the  grave  of  his  fame,  or  ought  to  be,  if  all  pro])er 
feeling  is  not  extinct.  The  very  nature  of  this  man's  compositions  excludes 
us  from  proving  by  extracts  the  truth  of  our  remarks;  but  we,  who  are  not 
prudish,  emi)hatically  declare  that  the  man  who  wrote  page  79  of  the  Leaves 
of  Grass  deserves  nothing  so  richly  as  the  public  executioner's  whip.  Walt 
Whitman  libels  the  highest  tyjie  of  humanity,  and  calls  his  free  speech  the 
true  utterance  of  n  man  :  we,  who  may  have  been  misdirected  by  civilization, 
call  it  the  expression  of  a  beast. 


From  the  New  York  "  Criterion,"  November  ro,  fSsj- 

Thus,  then,  we  leave  this  gathering  of  muck  to  the  laws  which,  certainly, 
if  they  fulfil  their  intent,  must  have  power  to  siipjiress  such  ol)scenity.  As  it  is 
entirely  destitute  of  wit,  there  is  no  probability  that  any  would,  after  this  ex- 
posure, read  it  in  the  hope  of  finding  that ;  and  we  trust  no  one  will  require 
further  evidence,  for,  indeed,  we  do  not  believe  there  is  a  newspaper  so  vile 
that  would  print  confirmatory  extracts. 

In  our  allusions  to  this  book,  we  have  found  it  impossible  to  convey  any, 
even  the  most  faint  idea  of  its  style  and  contents,  and  of  our  disgust  and  de- 
testation of  lb  ;m,  without  employing  language  that  cannot  be  pleasing  to  ears 
polite;  but  it  does  seem  that  some  one  should,  under  circumstances  like  these, 
undertake  a  most  disagreeable  yet  stern  duty.  Tlit  records  of  crime  show 
tluit  many  monsters  have  gone  on  in  impunity,  because  the  exposure  of  their 
vileuess  was  attended  with  too  great  indelicacy. 

Emerson  to  Carlyie,  /Sj6. 

(^ne  book,  last  summer,  came  out  in  New  York,  a  nondescript  monster, 
wliich  yet  had  terrible  eyes  and  buffalo  strength,  and  was  indis|)ulal)ly  .Anier- 
icm — which  1  thouglit  to  send  you  ;  but  the  book  throve  so  badly  with  the  few 
to  whom  I  showed  it,  and  wanted  good  morals  so  much,  that  1  never  flid.  ^'et 
I  believe  now  again,  1  shall.  It  is  called  /.r<rTes  of  Crass — was  written  and 
ptintetl  by  a  journeyman  printer  in  IJrooklyn,  New  York,  named  Walter 
Whitman  ;  and  after  you  have  looked  into  it,  if  you  think,  as  yi»u  may.  that 
it  is  only  an  auctioneer's  inventory  of  a  warehouse,  you  can  light  your  pipe 
with  W..— Letters  published  /SSj. 


198  Appendix  to  Part  IL 

From  the  Boston  "  Intelligencer^''  May  3,  iSj6. 

We  were  attracted  l)y  the  very  lingular  title  of  the  work  to  seek  the  work 
itself,  anil  what  wc  thought  ridiculous  in  the  title  is  eclij)sed  in  the  pages  of 
this  heterogeneous  mass  of  bombast,  egotism,  vulgarity,  and  non>ense.  The 
beastliness  of  the  author  is  set  forth  in  his  own  description  of  himself,  and 
we  can  conceive  no  better  reward  than  the  lash  for  such  a  violation  of  deceiKy 
as  we  have  before  us.  Speaking  of  "this  mass  of  stupid  filth,"  the  "Crite- 
rion "  says :  "  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  how  any  man's  fancy  could  have 
conceived  it,  unless  he  were  possessed  of  the  soul  of  a  sentimental  donkey 
that  had  died  of  disappointed  love."  This  book  should  find  no  place  where 
humanity  urges  any  claim  to  respect,  and  the  author  should  be  kicked  from 
all  decent  society  as  below  the  level  of  the  brute.  There  is  neither  wit  nor 
nu'thod  in  his  disjointed  babbling,  and  't  seems  to  us  he  must  be  some  escaped 
lunatic  raving  in  pitiable  delirium. 


From  "  Fourteen  Thousand  Miles  Afoot,''''  iS^g. 

Nothing  can  more  clearly  demonstrate  the  innate  vulgarity  of  our  American 
people,  their  radical  immodesty,  their  internal  licentiousness,  their  unchastity 
of  heart,  their  foulness  of  feelings,  than  the  tabooing  of  Walt  Whitman's 
Leaves  of  Grass.  It  is  (|uite  impossible  to  find  a  publisher  for  the  new  edi- 
tion which  hiis  long  since  been  ready  for  the  press,  so  measureless  is  the  de- 
pravity of  public  taste.  There  is  not  an  indecent  wcid,  an  immodest  expres- 
sion, in  the  entire  volume;  not  a  sujfgestion  which  is  not  purity  itself;  and 
yet  it  is  rejected  on  account  of  its  indecency  !  So  nuich  do  I  think  of  this 
work  by  the  healthiest  and  most  original  poet  America  has  produced, so  valu- 
able a  means  is  it  of  rightly  estimating  character,  that  I  have  been  accustomed 
to  try  with  it  of  what  tjualily  was  ihe  virtue  my  friends  possessed.  How  few 
stood  the  test  \  shall  not  say.  Some  did,  and  praised  it  beyond  measure. 
These  I  set  down  without  hesitation  as  radically  pure,  as  "born  again,"  and 
fitted  for  the  society  of  heaven  and  the  angels.  And  this  test  1  would  recom- 
mend to  every  one.  Would  you,  reader,  male  or  female,  ascertain  if  you  be 
actually  modest,  innocent,  pure-minded?  read  tbe  Leaves  of  Crass.  If  you 
fiiul  nothing  imi)roper  there,  you  are  one  of  the  virtuous  and  pure.  If,  on  the 
contrary,  you  find  your  sense  of  decency  shocked,  then  is  that  sense  of  de- 
cency an  exceedingly  foul  one,  and  you,  man  or  woman,  a  very  vulgar,  dirty 
per'^on. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass  is  as  sweet  as  that  of  a  hay-field. 
Its  pages  exhale  the  fragrance  of  Nature.  It  takes  you  back  to  man's  pristine 
stale  of  innocence  in  Paradise,  and  lifts  you  (Jodwards,  It  is  the  healthiest 
book,  morally,  this  century  has  produced  ;  and  i'  it  were  reprinted  in  the  form 
of  a  cheap  tract,  and  scattered  broadcast  over  t  le  land,  put  into  the  hands  of 
youth,  and  into  the  hands  of  men  and  women  everywhere,  it  would  do  more 
towards  elevating  our  nature,  towards  eradicatmg  this  foul,  vulgar,  licentious, 
sham  modesty  which  so  degrades  our  people  now,  than  any  other  means 
within  my  knowledge.  What  we  want  is  noi  outward,  Init  inward  modesty; 
not  external,  but  internal  virtue;  not  silk  aid  broadcloth  decency,  but  a  de- 
cency infused  into  every  organ  of  the  body  ard  faculty  of  the  soul.  Is  mod- 
esty a  virtue  ?  Is  it  tlien  worn  in  clothes"  Doe  it  hang  over  the  shoulders, 
or  does  it  live  and  breathe  in  the  heart  ?  (Hirrn-idesty  is  a  Jewish  phylactery, 
sewed  up  in  the  padding  of  a  coat,  and  L^^ch*..  \  into  a  woman's  stays. 


The  *'  Imprints  I'  of  i860.  199 

From  the  Brooklyn  "City  NcWS,'^  October  loth,  i860. 

I,F,AVF.s  OF  Grass  Imprints.  Boston:  Thayer  &  Eldridge,  Publishers. 
— Ill  this  little  supplement  (a  sort  of  wake  after  the  ship)  ajipear  to  be  gath- 
ered a  portion  of  those  notices,  reviews,  etc.  (especially  the  condemnatory 
ones),  that  have  followed  the  successive  issues  of  Wall  Whitman's  Leaves  of 
Grass.  The  history  of  that  composition,  so  far,  is  curious.  It  has  already 
had  three  births,  or  successive  issues.  The  first  poems  consi>ted  of  a  thin 
quarto  volume  of  96  pages,  in  I5rool<lyn,  in  1855.  It  comprised  eleven  pieces, 
and  was  received  with  derisinn  by  tiie  literary  lawgivers.  The  only  excep- 
tion was  a  note  from  Ralph.  Waldo  Emerson.  In  1S57  a  second  issue,  a  very 
neat  i6nio  volume  of  384  pages,  was  published  in  New  York,  containing 
thirty-two  poems.  The  third  issue,  containing,  large  and  small,  one  hundred 
and  fifty-four  poems,  superbly  printed  (it  is  indeed  universally  pronounced, 
here  and  in  England,  a  perfect  specimen  of  choice  typography),  came  forth 
in  Boston  the  current  year,  i860. 

Such  is  the  book  to  which  this  curious  collection  of  criticisms  refers.  The 
poem  itself  (for  Leaves  of  Grass  all  have  a  compact  unity)  may  be  described, 
in  short  terms,  as  the  Song  of  the  sovereignty  of  One's  self — and  the  Song  of 
entire  faith  in  all  that  Nature  is,  universal  and  particular — and  in  all  that  be- 
longs to  a  man,  body  and  soul.  The  egotistical  outset,  '*  I  celebrate  myself," 
and  which  runs  in  sj^irit  through  so  much  of  the  volume,  speaks  for  him  or 
her  reading  it  precisely  the  same  as  for  the  author,  and  is  invariably  to  be  so 
applied.  Thus  the  book  is  a  gospel  of  self-assertion  and  self-reliance  for 
every  American  reader — which  is  the  same  as  saying  it  is  the  gospel  of  De- 
mocracy. 

A  man  "in  perfect  health"  here  comes  forward,  devoting  his  life  to  the  expe- 
riment of  singing  the  New  World  in  a  New  Song — not  only  new  in  spirit,  but 
new  in  letter,  in  form.  To  him  America  means  not  at  all  a  second  edition, 
an  adaptation  of  Europe — not  content  with  a  new  theory  and  practice  of  poli- 
tics only — but  above  its  politics,  and  more  important  than  they,  inaugurating 
new  and  infinitely  more  generous  and  comprehensive  theories  of  Sociology, 
Literature,  Religion,  and  Comradeship. 

We  therefore  do  not  wonder  at  the  general  Jio7vl  with  which  these  poems 
have  been  received  both  in  America  and  in  Europe.  The  truth  about  the 
book  and  its  author  is,  that  they  both  of  them  confound  and  contradict  several 
of  the  most  cherished  of  the  old  and  hitherto  accepted  canons  upon  the  right 
manner  and  matter  of  men  and  books — and  cannot  be  judged  thereby; — but 
aim  to  establish  new  canons,  and  can  only  be  judged  by  them.  Just  the  same 
as  America  itself  does,  and  can  only  be  judged. 

Neither  can  the  song  o{  Leahies  of  Grass  ever  be  judged  by  the  intellect — 
nor  suffice  to  be  read  merely  once  or  so,  for  amusement.  This  strange  song  (often 
offensive  to  the  intellect)  is  to  be  felt,  absorbed  by  the  soul.  It  is  to  be  dwelt 
U]ion — returned  to,  again  and  again.  It  wants  a  broad  space  to  turn  in,  like 
a  big  shi]).  Many  readers  will  be  perplexed  and  baffled  by  it  at  first;  but  in 
frecjuent  cases  those  who  liked  the  book  least  at  first  will  take  it  closest  to  their 
hearts  upon  a  second  or  third  perusal.  A  peculiar  native  idiomatic  flavor  is 
in  it,  to  many  disagreeable.  There  is  no  denying,  indeed,  that  an  essential 
quality  it  takes  from  its  author,  is  (as  has  been  eharge<l)  the  (piality  of  the 
celt  lirated  New  York  "  rough,"  full  of  muscular  and  excessively  virile  energy, 
full  of  animal  blood,  masterful,  striding  to  the  front  rank,  allowing  none  to 
walk  before  him,  full  of  rudeness  and  recklessness,  talking  and  acting  his 
own  way,  utterly  regardless  of  other  people's  ways. 

The  cry  of  indecency  against  Lrar'es  of  Grass  amounts,  when  plainly 
staled,  about  to  this :  Other  writers  assume  tliatthe  sexual  relations  arc  shame- 


200  Appendix  to  Part  IT. 

ful  in  themselves,  and  not  to  be  put  in  poemfi.  But  our  new  bard  assumes 
tliat  tliose  very  relations  are  the  most  beautiful  and  pure  and  divine  of  any — 
and  in  that  w  ay  he  "  celebrates  "  iheni.  No  wonder  he  confounds  the  ortho- 
dox. Vet  his  indecency  is  the  ever-recurrini:;  indecency  of  the  inspired  Bib- 
lical writers — anti  is  that  of  innocent  youth,  and  of  the  natural  and  untainted 
man  in  all  ages.  In  other  words,  the  only  e.xiilanation  liie  reader  needs  to 
bear  in  mind  to  clear  up  the  whole  matter  is  this:  The  subjects  about  which 
such  a  storm  has  been  raised,  are  treated  by  Walt  Whitman  with  unprece- 
dented boldness  and  candor,  but  always  in  the  very  highest  religious  and  es- 
thetic s])irit.  Filtiiy  to  others,  to  him  they  are  not  filthy,  but  "  illustrious." 
While  his  "critics"  (carefully  minding  never  to  .state  the  foregoing  fact, 
though  it  is  stamped  all  over  the  book)  consider  those  subjects  in  Leaves  of 
Grass  from  the  point  of  view  of  persons  slnnding  on  the  lowest  animal  and 
inddelistic  platform.     Which,  then,  is  really  the  "  beast"? 

Those  who  really  know  Walt  Whitman  will  be  amused  beyond  measure  at 
the  personal  statt;ments  put  forth  about  him  in  some  of  these  criticisms.  We 
believe  it  was  Dr.  Dictionary  Johnson  who  said  that  nersons  of  any  celebrity 
may  calculate  how  much  truth  there  is  in  histories  and  written  lives,  by  weigh- 
ing the  amount  of  that  article  in  the  stuff  that  is  printed  or  gossiped  about 
themselves. 

From  "  The  Cosmopolite^  Boston^  August  4th,  1S60. 

In  no  other  modern  poems  do  we  find  such  a  lavish  outpouring  of  wealth. 
It  is  as  if,  in  the  mi(Ut  of  a  crowd  of  literati  bringing  handfuls  of  jewels,  a 
few  of  pure  metal  elaborately  wrouidit,  but  the  rest  merely  pretty  s]iecimens 
of  pinchi)eck,  suddenly  a  hercidean  fellow  should  come  along  with  an  entire 
gold  mine.  Right  and  left  he  scatters  the  giitteiing  dust, — and  it  is  but  dust 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  look  <.nly  for  pleasing  trinkets.  Out  of  his  deep 
Californian  sacks,  mingled  with  native  quartz  and  sand,  he  empties  the  yellow 
ore, — sufficient  to  set  uji  fifty  small  practical  jtwellers  dealing  in  galvanized 
ware,  if  they  were  not  too  much  alarmed  at  the  miner's  rough  garb  to  ap- 
proach and  help  themselves.  Down  from  his  cajiacious  pockets  tundile 
astonishing  nuggets, — but  we,  who  are  accustomed  to  see  the  stufT  never  in  its 
rude  state,  but  only  in  fashionable  shapes  of  breastpins  or  caneheads,  start 
back  with  affright,  and  scream  for  our  toes. 

It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  Measures  of  such  rare  value  are  lost  to  the 
age  through  the  strange  form  and  manner  in  which  they  are  i)resented.  But 
it  is  time  lost  blamir.g  the  miner.  Perhaps  he  could  have  done  ditlerently, 
])erhaps  not;  at  all  events,  we  must  tal<e  him  as  he  is,  and,  if  we  are  wise, 
make  the  best  of  h.im. 

The  first  and  greatest  objection  brought  against  Walt  Whitman  and  his 
Leaves  of  Gr.  is  their  indecency.  Nature  is  treated  here  without  tigdeaves; 
things  are  called  by  their  names,  without  any  apparent  scn^e  ol  modesty  or 
shame.  Of  this  peculiarity — so  shocking  in  nn  artificial  era — the  dainty  reader 
should  be  especially  warned.  But  it  is  a  mistake  to  infer  that  the  book  is  on 
this  account  necessarily  immoral.  It  is  the  poet's  design,  not  to  entice  to  the 
jierversion  of  Nature,  which  is  vice,  but  to  lead  us  back  to  Nature,  which  in 
his  theory  is  the  only  virtue.  His  liieory  may  be  \Mong,  and  the  manner  in 
widch  he  carries  it  nut  repulsive,  but  110  one  who  reads  and  understands  him 
will  ;iiesiion  the  siiui  rity  of  his  motixes,  however  much  may  be  doubted  the 
wisdom  of  attempting  in  this  way  to  restore  mankinil  to  the  days  of  un- 
drajicd  innocence. 

In  respect  of   plain  speaking,  and  in  most  respects,  the  Leaves  more  re- 


A  Boston  Critic  ** at  a  loss"  201 

semble  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  than  do  any  other  modern  writings.  Tlie  style 
is  woiiderfully  idit)matic  and  grapliic.  The  commonest  daily  objects  and  the 
most  exalted  truths  of  the  soul,  this  bard  of  Nature  touches  with  the  ease 
and  freedom  of  a  [;reat  masjter.  He  wonders  at  all  thinj^s,  he  sympathizes 
witli  all  things  and  with  all  men.  The  nameless  something  which  mak'.'s  the 
power  and  spirit  of  music,  of  poetry,  of  all  art,  throbs  and  whirls  under  and 
through  iiis  verse,  affecting  us  we  know  not  how,  agitating  and  ravishing  the 
soul.  And  this  springs  s<^  genuinely  from  the  inmo-it  nature  of  the  man,  tliat 
il  always  ajipears  singularly  iii  keeping  even  w  ith  tiiat  extravagant  egotism, 
and  with  tiio^e  surpri>ingly  (juaint  or  common  expressions,  at  which  readers 
are  at  first  inclined  only  lo  laugh.  In  his  frenzy,  in  the  fire  of  his  inspiration, 
are  fused  and  poured  out  together  elements  hitherto  considered  antagonistic 
in  poetry, — passion,  arrogance,  animality,  i^hilosophy,  brag,  humility,  rcjwdy- 
iiMi,  spirituality,  laughter,  tears,  together  with  the  most  ardent  and  tender  love, 
the  most  comprehensive  human  sympathy  which  ever  radiated  its  divine  glow 
thiough  the  pages  of  poems. 

From  the  ''Boston  Post,'^  iS6o. 

We  have  alluded  just  now  to  our  incapability  of  comprehending  the  writ- 
ings of  Swecienborg,  but  still  more,  in  some  parts,  do  we  acknowledge  our- 
selves nonplussed  and  puzzleil  by  these  Leaves  of  Grass.  It  wt)ultl  be  more  cor- 
rect, however,  to  .-ay  how  utterly  at  a  loss  we  are  to  understand  by  what  m  )live 
or  imindse  so  eminent  a  lecturer  and  writer,  and,  as  \\e  have  always  under- 
stood, with  all  his  crotchety  ideas  and  pantheistic  prattlings,  so  pure-minded 
a  man  as  R.  Waldo  Emerson  could  have  written  that  eulogy  of  the  Leaves, 
which  certainly  acted  as  our  chief  inducement  for  ins])ecling  their  structure. 

(jrass  is  the  gift  of  God  for  the  healthy  sustenance  of  his  creatures,  and  its 
name  ought  not  to  be  desecrated  by  being  so  improperly  bestowed  upon  these 
foul  and  rank  leaves  of  tlie  poison-|jIants  of  egotism,  irreverence,  and  of  lust 
run  rampant  and  holding  high  revel  ui  its  shame ! 

We  see  that  the  volume  arrogantly  assumes  to  itself  the  claim  of  founding 
an  original  and  independent  American  Literature.  Woe  and  shame  for  the 
Land  of  Liberty  if  its  literature's  stream  is  thus  to  (low  from  the  filthy  foun- 
tain of  licentious  corru|  tion  !  Little  fear,  however,  should  we  have  of  such 
an  issue  from  the  Leaves  themselves.  The  pure  and  elevatec'  moral  st'iise  of 
Aineric.i  would  leave  them  to  decay  and  perish  amid  their  own  putridity.  Hut 
there  /*  danger  of  their  corrupting  influences  being  diffused  ami  extended  to 
the  great  injury  of  society,  when  leaders  of  our  literature,  like  Emerson,  are 
so  infatuated  in  judgment,  and  so  untrue  to  the  most  solemn  responsibilities 
of  their  |)H-iMon,  as  to  indorse  such  a  jirurient  and  polluted  work ; — to  ad- 
diess  its  author  in  such  terms  as  these,  "  I  give  you  joy  of  your  free  and 
brave  thought— I  have  great  joy  in  it — I  wi^h  to  see  my  benefactor." 

The  most  charitable  conclusion  at  which  we  can  arrive  is,  that  both  Whit- 
m^m's  Leaves  and  Emerson's  laudation  had  a  common  origin  in  temporary 
insinily  ! 

It  in  no  degree  shakes  our  judgment  to  find  more  than  one  eminent  Review 
Coinciding  more  or  less  in  the  praise  of  this  work,  to  which  we  ourselves  by 
no  means  deny  the  possession  t)f  nuicii  originality  of  thought  and  vigor  of 
ex]iression.  No  amount,  however,  of  such  merits  can,  in  the  judgment  of 
siiund  and  hiuu'-t  criticism, — whose  bounden  duty  it  is  to  endeavor  to  guide 
tlie  mind  of  the  nation  in  a  healthy,  moral  course— atone  f(jr  the  exulting  auda- 
city of  I'ria|)us  worshiping  obsciiiity,  which  marks  a  large  portit  n  of  the  vol- 
ume.    Its  vaunted  manliness  and  independence,  tested  by  the  standartf  of   a 


202  Appendix  to  Part  II, 

truthful  iudf^mcnt,  is  nothing  but  the  deification  of  Self,  and  defiance  of  the 
Deity  ; — its  lil)erty  is  the  wildest  license  ;  its  love  the  essence  of  the  lowest  lust  I 

From  the  Cincinnati  "  Commercial^  iS6o. 
Perhaps  our  readers  are  blissfully  ignorant  of  the  history  and  achievements 
of  Mr.  Wait  Whitman.  Be  it  known,  tlien,  that  he  is  a  native  and  resident  of 
Brooklyn,  l-ong  Island,  born  and  breil  in  an  obscurity  from  which  it  were  well 
he  never  had  emerged.  A  i)erson  of  coarse  nature,  and  strong,  rude  passions, 
he  has  passed  his  lile  in  cultivating,  not  the  amenities,  but  the  rudenesses  of 
character;  and  instead  of  tempering  his  native  ferocity  with  the  delicate  influ- 
ences of  art  and  retmed  literature,  he  has  studied  to  exaggerate  its  deformities, 
and  to  thrust  into  his  composition  all  the  brute  force  he  could  muster  from  a 
capacity  not  naturally  sterile  in  the  elements  of  strength.  He  has  undertaken 
to  be  an  artist,  without  learning  the  first  princijjles  of  art,  and  has  presumed  to 
put  forth  "  poems,"  without  possessing  a  spark  of  the  poetic  faculty.  He  affects 
swagger  and  indv-'pendence,  and  blurts  out  his  vulgar  impertinence  under  a  full 
assurance  of  "originality." 

From  the  London  "Literary  Gazette,'"  yuly  yth,  i860. 
Of  all  the  writers  we  have  ever  perused  Walt  Whitman  is  the  most  silly, 
the  most  blasphemous,  and  the  most  disgusting.      If  we  can  think  of  any 
stronger  epithets  we  will  print  them  in  a  second  edition. 

From  the  "Alltfcmeine  Zeilung"  {Augsburg.)    May  10,  1868. 

3?on  ^Vvbtiiiiul)  f^reiltgr at^. 

^alt  yjbitman  I    2Bfr  ift  3«alt  ^iiibitman  ? 

ik  Vlntivcrt  I'nutet:  ein  Xicbtfr!  cSiii  ncuer  nmcrtfanif^er  Didjtcr! 
Seine '2*miintcrrr  fagcn :  ter  crfte,  ber  cinvge  Xidjtcr  tvfld)en  Vlmerifa  bi«l)ff 
bcrvoriKlnadu.  Tfr  fiii^igc  fpecififd)  nmcrihinifcbe  ricbter.  itciu  2l>nnt'ler  in 
ten  aitv?iictrcti'neii  ^vnircn  rer  f»ropaifd)eu  Wufe,  ncin,  frifd)  i^cn  tcr^Pmiric  unb 
bni  iJlni'tftliiiiiifn,  frifd*  ihmi  bcr  iliifte  unb  ben  i^ropcn  J\lii|Trn,  frifd)  awi  bem 
WcnfilicniKn-Hibl  bcr  •'pafrn  unb  bcr  ^ttiibtf,  frifd)  \'\i\\  bcu  (£d)lad)tfclbcrn  bed 
(2iiccnc<,  ben  lirtflevud)  bei*  'i^obeni*,  bcr  ibn  tie^eii<it,  in  .f'^aar  unb  i^iut  unb  .Mlcib- 
frn;  rin  nodi  nictit  raflcrccfencr,  ein  fcft  unb  cenjufu  nuf  ben  cijjenen  nmerifan- 
td)en  J\iif)en  5tebe!iber,  ein  (?ro§e  T\\\o,<  i\ro§,  tvenuiuid)  oft  feltnim,  il'erfiinben- 
ber.  Unb  wetter  nod)  jieben  ik  iPeiiMinberer :  5U?iilt  "Jl^bitmnn  ift  ibnen  ber  ein^ige 
Xtditer  iiberbiuipt  in  weldiem  bif  .Jeit,  bie  frei9enbe,  rinflenbc,  fud^enbe  Jett, 
ibren  'Jluobruif  jufunben  bat;    ber  Xicbter  pur  excellence;  ber  Xtdjter— 

''the  poet." 

(^0,  nnf  ber  einen  Sette  btc  5?ett5unberer,  tn  beren  JJiciben,  un«  fogar  ein 
Smerfon  beiiegnet;  ouf  ber  anbern  bann  frcilid)  bie  Jabler,  bie  «^'^erabnjiirbii;er. 
9{el>en  bem  uniieineffenen  Vobe,  ber  begeifterten  ^Inerfennung  ber  bittere,  bcr  bcj§» 
cube  2 pott,  bie  franfenbc  2d)inabung. 

Ttic  freilidi  fiimntert  bcu  Xtduer  ntd)t.  XiiiJ  ?ob  nimmt  er  bin  aid  etn  tbm 
flfbiibrenbci? ;  bcr  'i5cmd)tung  fei^t  cr  bie  '!l<crac^tunfl  cufflciien.  ^x  glaubt  nn  fid), 
fein  2clbfttiefiibl  ift  unbciiranu.  /, Otr  ift"  (fagt  feiu  englifdier  "^craudgebcr, 
9B,  W.  :'1(offctti  I  „  vor  alien  felbft  bcr  cine  W.inn,  n)eld)cr  bie  ernfle  Ueberjeugen 
\)uy\  nub  I'cfcnnt  bag  er,  jel^t  unb  in  3ufunft,  ber  (s^iinber  ctncr  neuen  poctitd)en 
Vitemiur  ift  -  einer  iuof?en  Viter.itur  — einrr  I'itcratur  tvie  fie  ^u  ber  matcviellen 
(Mvoflc  unb  ben  unbered)enbarcn  (^Ufdiicfen  Vlmerifa'd  tm  4'erbaltnifi  ftcbt."  (Ir 
glaul't  t.if?  rer  liolunibud  bcc<  lirbtbciid  obcr  ber  3l^afbtnfifon  bcr  (5taaten  nid)l 
n?abrbaffit)er  ein  (skiinber  unb  ?lufcrbauer  bicjtd  ^Jlmertfa'd  flctccfcn  iji  aid  « 


Criticism  by  Freiligrath,  203 

fi'lbfl  in  3"f""ft  f'tt"  fchn  ivirb.  C^)fh.M'§  fine  crljabcne  Ucbcrjeuc^ung,  unb  vom 
Xici^tcr  mcbr  ali*  cinmal  in  )jrad)ti)^cn  ilLH^rten  au>?ac|'procl)fii  — feine  |,'rad)tiflfr 
nlij  trt»5  cyctidjt  wcldtci?  mit  tcr  ,']fiie  brginnt: 

,,,Homitit.  unajlcvMid)  iriu'id)  tiffc*  (Mediant  maicn." 

TiiiJ  flinflt  ftolj.  3l't  bfr  'DJ^^nn  in  feincm  5Kcct)tc  fo  ^u  ff^fn  ?  Jrcten  tt?ir 
ihm  nabcr!  .viijrfn  wir  von  feincm  I'eben  unb  feinem  ^S2cl)aftcn !  Sd^lagen  n?ir 
jiierft  fein  iMid)  auf ! 

*£inb  bax5  i>er|"e  j"  Tie  3"'"'  fint'  t^if  3?erfe  aKiefetU,  aderbiniii?,  tiber  l^erfe 
finb  ecs  nidjt.  Meiu  ^?JJetrum,  fein  9teim,  fctne  5trepben.  5?l)«tbmifd)c  ^^rofti, 
3trecfycr|'e.  Sluf  ten  erftcn  'iliiblicf  mub,  ungcfiig,  formlci^ ;  iibcr  bcnnodt,  fiir 
ein  feinereei  Obr,  tee  ii}obllaute  nidit  ermaniielnb.  !irie  i^pradie  fdtltcbt,  tcrb, 
(jrateju,  rtllevJ  Ting  beim  redjten  *i)Jamcn  nennenb,  »or  niduc(  juriirffdjrccfenb, 
mand)mrtl  tunfel.  Xer  Ion  rbapfotifc^,  propbctenbaft,  eft  uni^Icidi,  basJ  C£rba» 
bene  niit  tern  (yemobnlidien,  bii*  iwx  (skfdtmacfloj'i.ifeit  foivir,  Wrmi|d)enb.  (ir 
erinnert  une  ,^ujvctlen,  bci  alter  fonftii^cn  i^el■fd)ie^enl)elt,  an  unfcrn  -fiiunann,  obcr 
an  liarlDlc'o  dafclweicbcit,  eter  an  tie  I'aroles  d'un  Croyiuit.  %xi  allcm 
l}crauo  flingt  tic  i^ibcl  —  ibre  3prac^c,  nic^t  il,)r  (sjlaube, 

lint  njav<  \x'<xc\X  wwi  ber  Ticbter  in  tiefer  ?lorm  »or  s*  3""'^^ff  M  ffH'^  fein 
3dV  iBalt  *il>bitman.  Tiefee  Cidi  nber  ift  ein  Jbcil  »on  ^^imcrifa,  ein  ^ibcil  tcr 
t£rte,  ciu  Ibeil  ber  Wen|'d)beit,  ein  Ibcil  teS  %K\i.  %.\i  falc^ien  fiiblt  er  fidi,  unb 
roUt,  ba»5  ©rij^fe  am?  .Hieinfte  fniipfent,  imnier  von  3lnterifa  aui^ijebcnb  unt  iminer 
loieter  rtuf  ^Imcrifa  ^uriidfomment  (nur  einem  freien  li'olfe  9ebi.'rttie3nfnnft!), 
ein  tT|rof?artiiieiJ  5il'eltpanorama  vor  uni<  nuf.  I^urd)  biefeS  3nti»itmim  Sl^ilt 
2Bbitman  linb  feinen  Slmcrifaniv^nuiJ  flcbt,  wir  moditcn  fai^en,  ein  foemi|'d)er 
3i''l/  tt>ie  er  finncnben  CtJeiftern  fiflnenniaii,  tie,  ber  llnentlid)fcit  iiegeniiber,  ein= 
fame  ^agc  am  (iJeftate  bci3  Wcer^,  cinfamc  '?iad)te  unter  tern  geftimten  «'pimmel 
ber  prairie  »erbrad)t  babcn.  tSr  fintet  ftd»  in  allcm  unb  allce  in  fic^.  (£r,  bet 
cine  Wenfd)  ^HiflU  3i>bitman,  ift  bie  ^JJcnfc^tjcit  unb  bie  iiMJtlt.  Unb  tic  5Belt  unb 
tie  5}icnfd)beit  finb  ibn*  e  i  n  gropci?  (s5ctid)t.  SBac  er  fiebt  unb  bijrt,  wasJ  er  bc- 
riibrt,  waif  immer  an  ibn  bcrantritt,and)ba^  9?ietrigfte,  tai?  (>3crtngfte,  ta>J  Sllltug- 
Itd)fte  —  allec  ift  ibm  5vmbol  einci  iiobercn,  eine^  (s3etftiiien.  CteriMcl  mcbr :  bie 
Watcrie  unt  tcr  (ikift,  tie  9Birflid)feit  unt  taei  Cstcal  fitfb  ibm  cine  unb  baefclbe. 
i^o,  burd)  fid)  felbft  iuworbcn,  ftebt  er  ba ;  fo  fc^reitet  er  fiuiicnb  einber ;  fo  crfd)lie§t 
er,  i\\\  ftol^cr  freier  Wenfd;,  unb  nur  ein  5}{cnfd),  ttcltwctte  focialc  unb  poliiifc^c 
•JJerfpcctivcn. 

liine  wunberbare  Grfdifinung !  2Bir  geftcl)en  ba§  fie  une  crgreift,  un3  bc= 
unrnbiiit,  une  nid)t  loe  ta^t.  3"tllfid)  ftl'"  merfen  hjir  nn  ba§  wir  mit 
unfcrm  llrtbcil  iibcr  fie  nod*  nid)t  fcrtig,  baf?  wir  nocl)  »om  erftcn  (^inbrncf  be= 
fangen  fint.  llntcrbeiTen  ivoUcn  »ir,  wabrfcbeinlid)  ^'n  erftcn  in  reutfoilanb, 
ivcmgftcne  »orlaufig  3lct  nebmcn  vom  Tafe«n  unb  wirfen  bicfer  fvifdicn  Mraft. 
(2ic  verbient  bafi  unferc  Tiditcr  unb  renfcr  fidb  ben  fcltfamen  ueucn  «5cnoffcn 
nabcr  anfeben,  ber  unferc  gefammte  Ars  poetioa,  ber  all  unferc  aftt)ctifc^cn  Ibeo- 
rien  unb  Manom?  iibcr  ben  i^raufen  ju  werfcn  brot)t.  3n  ber  :Ibat,  wenn  wir  in 
bicfe  crnften  ^Matter  binciugebovdJt  babcn,  njcnn  une  bag  ticfe  volltonige  'ikanfen 
tiefer  wic  Wccrcewellcn  in  ununtcrbrodjener  3oIgc  auf  une  cinftiirmniben  rbap= 
fi'bifdten  tticfape  vertraut  genjorben  ift,  fo  will  unfer  bcrfommlici^fc  i'crfemadten, 
unfer  3li''^"flf"  bee  fi3cbanfcne  in  irgcnbweld)e  iiberfommene  ?\ormen,  unfer 
Sviclcn  mit  Mling  unb  Mlang,  unfer  ^ilbcnjablcn  unb  i3ilbermeffcn,  unfer 
leoncttircn  unb  2tropbcn-  unb  Stanjenbauen  nne  faft  finbifc^i  bcbiinfcn.  Sinb 
»vir  wirflid)  auf  bcm  'J.Mmft  nngclangt  wo  bae  Scben,  and)  in  ber  ^ocfic,  mue 
3Iuetrurfcweifcn  gebicterifd)  »jerlangi  C  ftat  bie  ^cit  fo  im'cI  unb  fo  bebeutenbee  ju 
fiigen,  bap  bie  alten  (siefafic  fiir  ben  neum  3nbalt  nidbt  mcbr  auercidjcn  'i  *2teben 
U'tr  'jjor  etncr  .Jnfnnftevoefic  wie  une  fd)on  fcit  Oiibrcn  cine  ,}ufunft3mufif  »er- 
fiinbigt  KoKxVi    Unb  ift  iiJaU  aCl;itman  mel^r  ali3  i)iict)arb  SBngner? 


204  Appendix  to  Part  IT. 

From  "  The  Radical^''  Boston,  May,  iSfo. 

A  Woman's  Estimate  of  Walt  Whitman. — By  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  England, 

in  a  letter  to  W.  M.  R. 

{EA:tracts.) 

....  1  had  not  dreamed  that  words  could  cease  to  be  words,  and  become 
electric  streams  like  these.  1  do  assure  you  that,  stront;  as  1  am,  I  feel  some- 
times as  if  I  had  not  bodily  strength  to  read  many  of  these  poems.  In  the  series 
headed  "Calamus,"  for  instance,  in  some  of  the  ".Songs  of  Parting,"  the 
"Voice  out  of  the  Sea,"*  the  poem  l)eginning  "  Tears,  Tears,"  etc.,  there 
is  such  a  weiglit  of  emotion,  such  a  tension  of  tlie  heart,  tiiat  mine  refuses 
to  l)eat  under  it, — stands  (juite  still, — and  I  am  obliged  to  lay  the  book  down 
for  a  while.  Or  again,  in  the  piece  called  "  Walt  Whitman,"!  ''"''  °"'-'  °''  ^^^° 
others  of  that  type,  I  am  as  one  hurried  through  stormy  seas,  over  high  moun- 
tains, dazed  with  sunlight,  stunned  w  itii  a  crowd  and  tumult  of  faces  and  voices, 
till  I  am  breathless,  bewildered,  half  dead.  Then  come  parts  and  whole  poems 
in  which  tliere  is  sucli  calm  wisdom  and  strength  of  thought,  such  a  cheerful 
breadth  of  sunshine,  that  the  soul  Ijathes  in  them  renewed  and  strengthened. 
Living  impulses  flow  out  of  these  that  make  me  exult  in  life,  yet  look  long- 
ingly toward  "tiie  superb  vistas  t)f  Death."  Those  who  admire  this  poem, 
and  don't  care  for  that,  and  talk  of  formlessness,  absence  of  metre,  etc.,  are 
quite  as  far  from  any  genuine  recognition  of  Walt  Whitman  as  his  bitter  de- 
tractors. Not,  of  course,  that  all  tiie  pieces  are  ecjual  in  power  and  beauty, 
but  that  all  are  vital ;  they  grew — they  were  not  made.  We  criticise  a  palace 
or  a  cathedral;  but  wiiat  is  the  good  of  criticising  a  forest  ?  Are  not  the 
hitherto-accepted  masterpieces  of  literature  akin  r.ather  to  noble  architecture; 
built  up  of  material  rendered  precious  by  elaboration ;  planned  witii  subtile 
art,  tliat  makes  Ijeauty  go  hand-in-hand  with  rule  and  measure,  and  knows 
where  the  last  stone  will  come  i)efore  the  first  is  laid  ;  the  result  stately,  fixed, 
yet  such  as  might,  in  every  particular,  have  been  different  from  what  it  is 
(therefore  inviting'criticism),  contrasting  proudly  with  the  careless  freedom  of 
Nature — opjiosing  its  own  rigid  adherence  to  symmetry  to  her  wilful  dallying 
with  it?  Hut  not  such  is  this  book.  Seeds  brought  by  the  winds  from 
north,  south,  east,  and  west,  lying  long  in  the  earth,  not  resting  on  it  like  the 
stately  building,  but  hid  in  it  and  assimilating  it,  shooting  upwards  to  be  nour- 
ished by  the  air  and  the  sunshine  and  the  rain  which  i)eat  idly  against  that, — 
each  bough  and  twig  and  leaf  growing  in  strength  and  beauty  its  own  way,  a 
law  to  itself,  yet  with  all  this  freedom  of  spontaneous  growth,  the  result  in- 
evitable, unalterable  (therefore  setting  criticism  at  naught) — above  all  things, 
vital — that  is,  a  source  of  ever-generating  vitality :  such  are  these  poems. 

I  see  that  no  counting  of  syllables  wi'!  reveal  the  mechanism  of  the  music; 
and  that  this  lUshing  spontaneity  could  not  stay  to  bind  itself  with  the  fetters 
of  metre.  Hut  I  know  that  the  music  is  there,  and  that  I  would  not  for  some- 
thing change  ears  with  those  who  cannot  h.ear  it.  And  I  know  that  poetry 
must  do  one  of  two  things, — either  own  this  man  as  ecjual  with  her  highest, 
conipletest  manifestors,  or  stand  aside,  and  admit  that  there  is  something  come 
into  the  world  nobler,  diviner  than  herself,  one  that  is  free  of  the  universe,  and 
can  tell  its  secrets  as  none  before.  I  do  not  think  or  believe  this,  but  see  it 
with  the  same  unmistakable  definiteness  of  perception  and  full  consciousness 
that  I  see  the  sun  at  this  moment  in  the  noonday  sky,  and  feel  his  rays  glowing 
down  upon  me  as  I  write  in  the  o[)en  air.    What  more  can  you  ask  of  the  words 


*  "  Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking."  f  "  ^^ong  o*  Myself." 


Letter  of  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  England.  205 

of  a  man's  mouth  than  tliat  tliey  should  "absorb  into  you  as  food  and  air,  to 
appear  again  in  your  strcnj^th,  gait,  lace," — that  tiicy  should  be  "  fibre  and  filter 
to  your  blood,"  joy  and  giadnebs  to  your  whole  nature  ? 

I  am  persuaded  that  one  great  source  of  this  kindling,  vitalizing  power — I 
supj)osL'  the  great  source— is  the  grasp  laid  upon  the  present,  the  tearless  and 
comprehensive  dealing  with  reality.  Hitherto  the  leaders  of  thouglit  have 
(except  in  science)  lieen  men  with  tlieir  faces  res(^lutely  turned  backwards; 
nun  who  have  made  of  the  |  i-t  a  tyrant  that  Iieggars  and  scorns  the  pre>eiit, 
hardly  seeing  any  greatness  l)Ut  what  is  shrouded  away  in  the  twilight,  under- 
ground past;  naming  the  present  only  for  disparaging  comparisons,  humilia- 
ting distrust  that  tends  to  create  the  very  barrenness  it  coini)lains  of;  l)idding 
me  warm  myself  at  fires  that  went  out  to  mortal  eyes  centuries  ago;  in>istiiig, 
in  religion  above  all,  that  1  must  either  "  look  through  dead  men's  e>es,"  or 
shut  iny  own  in  helpless  darkness.  I'oets  fancying  themselves  so  hapjjy  over 
the  chill  and  faded  beauty  of  the  past,  but  not  making  me  happy  at  ail — 
rebellious  always  at  being  dragged  do\\n  out  of  the  free  air  and  sunshine  of 
to-day.  But  this  poet,  thi-.  "athlete,  full  of  rich  words,  full  of  joy,"  t;'.kes 
you  by  the  hand  and  turns  you  with  your  face  straight  forwards.  The  present 
is  great  enough  for  him,  because  he  is  great  enough  for  it.  It  flows  through 
him  as  a  "  vast  oceanic  tide  "  lifiing  up  a  mighty  voice.  Earth,  "  the  elofpient, 
dumb,  great  mother,"  is  not  old,  has  lost  none  of  her  fre^h  charms,  none  of 
her  divine  meanings;  still  bears  great  sons  and  daughters,  if  only  they  would 
possess  themselves  and  accept  their  birthright — a  richer,  not  a  poorer,  heritage 
than  was  ever  proviiled  before — richer  by  all  the  toil  and  suffering  of  the  gen- 
erations that  have  preceded,  and  by  the  further  unfolding  of  the  eternal  pur- 
jioses.  Here  is  one  come  at  last  who  can  show  them  how  ;  whose  songs  are 
the  breath  of  a  gla',  trong,  !-eautiful  life,  nourished  sufficiently,  kindled  to 
unsurpassed  intensity  and  greatness  by  the  gilts  of  the  present. 

You  argued  rightly  that  my  confidence  would  not  be  betrayed  by  any  of  the 
poems  in  this  book.  None  of  them  troubled  me  even  for  a  moment ;  because 
I  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  not,  as  men  had  supiposed,  the  heights  brought 
down  to  the  depths,  but  the  depths  lifted  up  level  with  the  sunlit  heights,  that 
they  might  become  clear  and  sunlit  too.  Always,  for  a  woman,  a  veil  woven 
out  of  her  own  soul — never  touched  upon  even  with  a  rough  hand,  by  this 
poet.  But,  for  a  man,  a  dating,  fearless  pride  in  himself,  not  a  mock  modesty 
woven  out  of  delusions — a  very  poor  imitation  of  a  woman's.  Do  they  not 
see  that  this  fearless  pride,  this  complete  acceptance  of  themselves,  is  needful 
for  her  pride,  her  justification  ?  What !  is  it  all  so  ignoble,  so  base,  that  it 
will  not  bear  the  honest  light  of  speech  from  lips  so  gifted  with  "the  divine 
jwwer  to  use  words"?  Then  what  hateful,  bitter  humiliation  for  her,  to 
have  to  give  herself  up  to  the  reality !  Do  you  think  there  is  ever  a  bride 
who  does  not  taste  more  or  less  this  bitterness  in  her  cup?  But  who  jnit  it 
there  ?  It  mu>t  surely  be  man's  fault,  not  CJod's,  that  she  has  to  say  to  herself, 
"  Sold,  look  anotiier  way — you  have  no  part  in  this.  Motherhood  is  beauti- 
ful, fatherhood  is  beautiful;  but  the  dawn  of  fatherhood  and  motherhood  is 
not  beautiful.'-'  Do  they  really  think  that  (Jod  is  ashamed  of  what  He  has 
made  and  appointed  ?  And,  if  not,  surely  it  is  somewhat  superfluous  that  they 
should  undertake  to  be  so  for  Him. 

"  The  full  spread  pride  of  man  is  calming  and  excellent  to  the  soul" 

of  a  woman  above  all.  It  is  true  that  instinct  of  silence  I  spoke  of  is  a 
beautiful,  imperishable  jiart  of  Nature  too.  But  it  is  not  beautiful  when  it 
means  an  ignominious  shame  brooding  darkly.     Shame  is  like  a  very  flexible 


2o6  Appendix  to  Part  IT. 

veil,  that  follows  faithfully  the  shape  of  what  it  covers — beautiful  when  it 
hides  a  i)eautiful  thing,  ugly  when  it  hicies  an  ugly  one.  It  has  not  covered 
what  was  beautiful  here;  it  has  covered  a  mean  distrust  of  a  man's  self  and 
of  his  Creator.  It  was  needed  that  this  silence,  this  evil  spell,  should  for 
once  be  broken,  and  the  daylight  let  in,  that  the  dark  cloud  lying  under  might 
be  scattered  to  the  winds.  It  was  needed  that  one  who  could  here  indicate 
for  us  "  the  path  between  reality  and  the  soul  "  should  speak.  That  is  what 
these  beautiful,  despised  poems,  the  "  Children  of  Adam,"  do,  read  by  the  light 
that  glows  out  of  the  rest  of  the  volume :  light  of  a  clear,  strong  faith  in  God, 
of  an  unfatliomably  deep  and  tender  love  for  humanity — light  shed  out  of  a 
soul  that  is  "  possessed  of  itself." 

"  Natural  life  of  me  faithfully  praising  things, 
"  Corroborating  forever  the  M-iumph  of  things." 

Now  silence  may  brood  again  ;  but  lovingly,  happily,  as  protecting  what  is 
beautiful,  not  as  hiding  what  is  unbeautiful :  consciously  enfolding  a  sweet 
and  sacred  mystery — august  even  as  the  mystery  of  Death,  the  dawn  as  the 
setting ;  kindred  grandeurs,  which  to  eyes  that  are  opened  shed  a  hallowing 
beauty  on  all  that  surrounds  and  preludes  them. 

"  O  vast  and  well-veiled  Death  ! 

"  O  the  beautiful  touch  of  Death,  soothing  and  benumbing  a  few  moments,  for  reasons." 

He  who  can  thus  look  with  fearlessness  at  the  beauty  of  Death  may  well  dare 
to  teach  us  to  look  with  fearless,  untroubled  eyes  at  the  perfect  beauty  of  Love 
in  all  its  appointed  realizations.  Now  none  need  turn  away  their  thoughts 
with  pain  or  shame  ;  though  only  lovers  and  poets  may  say  what  they  will — 
the  iovei  to  his  own,  the  poet  to  all,  because  all  are  in  a  sense  his  own.  None 
need  fear  that  this  will  be  harmful  to  the  woman.  How  should  there  be  such 
a  Haw  in  the  scheme  of  creation  that,  for  the  two  with  whom  there  is  no  com- 
plete life,  save  in  closest  symi)athy,  perfect  union,  what  is  natural  and  happy 
for  the  one  should  be  baneful  to  the  other?  The  utmost  faithful  freedom  of 
speech,  such  as  there  is  in  these  poems,  creates  in  her  no  thought  or  feeling 
that  shuns  the  light  of  heaven,  none  that  are  not  as  innocent  and  serenely  fair 
as  the  flowers  that  grow ;  would  lead,  not  to  harm,  but  to  such  deep  and 
tender  affection  as  makes  harm  or  the  thought  of  harm  simply  impossible. 
I'"ar  more  beautiful  care  than  man  is  aware  of  has  been  taken  in  the  mnking 
of  her,  to  fit  her  to  be  his  mate.  Clod  has  taken  such  care  that  he  need  taKe 
none;  none,  that  is,  which  consists  in  disguiicment,  insincerity,  painful  hush- 
ing-up  of  his  true,  grand,  initiating  nature.  And,  as  regards  the  poet's  utter- 
ances, which,  it  might  be  thought,  however  harmless  in  themselves,  would 
prove  harmful  by  falling  into  the  hands  of  those  for  whom  they  are  manifestly 
unsuilaiile;  I  believe  that  even  here  fear  is  needless.  For  her  innocence  is 
folded  round  with  such  thick  folds  of  ignorance,  till  the  right  way  and  lime 
for  It  to  accept  knowledge,  that  what  is  unsuitable  is  also  unintelligible  to  her, 
and,  if  no  dark  shadow  from  without  be  cast  on  the  white  page  by  miscon- 
struction or  by  foolish  mystery  and  hiding  away  of  it,  no  hurt  will  ensue  from 
its  passing  freely  through  her  hands.  This  is  so,  though  it  is  little  understood 
or  realized  by  men.  Wives  and  mothers  will  learn  through  this  poet  that 
there  is  rejoicing  grandeur  and  beauty  there  wherein  their  hearts  have  so 
longed  to  find  it ;  where  foolish  men,  traitors  to  themselves,  poorly  compre- 
hending the  grandeur  of  their  own  or  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  nature,  have 
taken  such  pains  to  make  her  believe  there  was  none — nothing  but  miserable 
discrepancy. 


A  Frcnih  Literary  Opinion,  20/ 

From  the  "  JRevue  des  Deux  Mondes,'^  June  /,  1S72.     By  Th.  Bentzon. 

{Extracts.) 

Le  mepris  qu'il  feprouvait  pour  le  sentimentalisme  felfigant  que  les  pofetes 
de  I'ecole  tie  Tennyson  ont  mis  en  iionneur,  et  qui  pour  lui  n'etait  qu'un  ver- 
liiage  plus  ou  moins  musical,  resultat  d'ur  vie  de  moliesse  et  d'^nervement, 
— la  iiaine  de  ce  genre  de  litterature  dont  1  origine  selon  lui  est  feodale,  d'une 
certaine  distinction  convenue,  de  ce  ([u'il  appelle  les  fa9ons  de  la  haute  vie 
de  bas-etage, — rambitiun  enfin  de  creer  une  poesie  Americaine  proprement 
(lite,  en  rapport  avec  I'immensite  territoriale  et  la  grandeur  des  destinees  du 
Nouveau-Monde,  lui  inspirerent  cette  (X'uvre,  fjui  eut  un  succds  prodigieux  en 
meme  temps  (pi'elle  suscita  de  formidablcs  orages.  Emerson  n'a  pas  craint 
de  designer  Leai'es  of  Grass  comme  le  morceau  le  plus  extraordinaire  de  sa- 
gcsse  et  d'esprit  (ju'eut  encore  pruduit  I'Americiue!  Sans  doute  la  forme  en 
est  souvent  negligee  ou  meme  baroque.  Si  vous  6tes  imbu  de  vieux  pr6- 
juges  contre  les  poemes  en  prose,  si  vous  tenez  compte  des  lois  de  la  versifi- 
cation, gardez  vous  de  lire  ce  qu'ou  a  compare  avec  trop  d'indulgence  a  la 
pofesie  tie  la  Bible  et  i  la  prose  rliythmee  de  I'iaton.  L'aul6ur  declare  du 
reste  rompre  avec  tons  les  precedens;  aujoiird' hut,  voila  rei)rcuve  tjui  doit 
tenter  le  podte  !  A  quoi  bon  rcmontcr  dans  la  nuit  des  generations  loin- 
taines?  L'homme  naturel,  tel  est  son  lieros;  les  Etats-Unis  sont  en  eux- 
niemes  le  plus  grand  de  tons  les  poemes,  Walt  Whitman  enterre  ie  passe  : 
il  chante  I'avenir,  rAmericjue  et  la  liberte;  ([u'on  n'altende  de  lui  rien  d'j 
frivole  vie  de  ftiminin.     II  se  pitpie  avant  tout  d'une  herculeenne  virilite. 

Ce  qui  nous  parait  aussi  bizarre  pour  le  moins  que  la  philosophie  et  que  la 
religion  de  M.  Whitman,  c'est  sa  morale.  II  n'admet  jias  le  nial,  ou  plutOt  il 
juge  tpie  le  mal  et  le  bien  se  valent,  puisiiue  tons  deux  existent;  il  prend 
Thomme  comme  il  est  et  soutient  f|ue  rien  ne  peut  etre  micux  (|ue  ce  qui  est, 
si  les  appetits  grossiers  jouentun  grand  r6le,  ce  doit  etre  la  condition  neces- 
saire  ties  choses,  et  nous  tlevons  Taccepter.  Pouripioi  tlont  ce  ipii  se  voit,  ce 
(jue  nous  savons,  ce  tjui  est  necessaire,  par  consecjuent  juste,  ne  serait-il  pas 
proclame  dans  ses  vers  ?  Appuye  sur  de  |)areils  sophismes,  il  n'y  a  point  d'in- 
decence  qui  le  fasse  reculcr;  la  langue  frangaise  refuserait  \  la  traduction  de 
certains  morceaux  ert)ti(iues.  M.  Wait  Whitman  n'admtttant  pas  tie  differ- 
ence cntre  rhomme  et  la  femme,  nl  meme  entre  la  laidour  et  la  beauts,  ne 
peut  employer  le  mot  d'amour  dans  le  sens  ordinaire;  ce  mot  il  le  prononce 
sans  cesse,  mais  en  I'appli quant  indistinctemcnt  a  tons  les  elres;  I'nmour,  en- 
(Ichors  d'une  fraternite  univcrselle,  n'est  pour  lui  que  le  plaisir  physitpie  ex- 
prime  avec  la  erudite  qui  lui  est  propre.  Aussi  est  il  p^nible  de  I'eniendre 
parier  de  la  femme  consider^e  autrement  riue  comme  m6re  et  citoyenne.  Le 
seul  hommage,  presque  respectueux  et  tres  Eloquent  d'ailleurs,  qu'il  lui  rende 
dans  toute  son  nuuvre,  a  pour  cadre,  le  croirait-on,  la  morgue,  tiil  s'agit  d'une 
prostituee.     En  sonime,  une  prostituee  vaut-elle  moins  tiu'une  vicrge  ? 

L'Anglais,  qu'il  c61ebre  emphatiquemcnt  comme  la  langue  du  progr^s,  de  la 
foi,  de  la  libertd,  tie  la  justice,  de  I'egalite,  de  I'eslime  de  soi,  du  sens  com- 
nnm,  de  la  prudence,  de  la  revolution,  du  courage,  et  qui,  selon  lui,  exprime 
prcsfpie  I'ine  primable,  I'anglais  devient  sons  sa  plume  un  jargon  barbare 
souvent  incomprehensible.  Encore  si  ses  "  Chants  democratiques "  ne  p6- 
chaicnt  f|ue  par  la  forme ;  mais  le  fond  est  plus  detestable  encore. 

On  ne  peut  niei  qu'il  y  ait  \^  une  certaine  grandeur  ct  beaucoup  de  passion. 
Wall  Whitman  ncv..-.  fail  I'eifect  du  sinistre  oiscau  de  mere,  au  quel  lui  m€me 
s'est  compari,  ses  grandes  ailes  sombres  ouvertes  sur  I'ocean  qui  le  separe  de 


208  Appendix  to  Part  II. 

rnncicn  mnnde,  ct  jctant  nu  milieu  des  tempetes  les  cris  de  haine  raques  et 

stridciis  doiit  par  mallKur  rocho  a  iclciiti  tiici:  nous. 

Walt  Wliitman  excelle  a  dtl-criie  renthousiasme  des  recrues,  I'embarque- 
niciit  des  viciiles  trcnipcs  (jui  ariivcnt  dc  loulc  parts,  convenes  de  |)oussiere, 
lumaiit  dc  sueur,  les  tciites  blanches  (pii  s'eitiveiit  dans  le  camii,  les  salves 
d'artillerie  au  lever  de  I'aurore,  les  marches  precipilees  sur  des  routes  incon- 
iies,  les  lialtes  rnpides  sous  le  ciel  nocturne  pas!>enie  d'etoiles  elernelles;  il 
cxcelle  a  meltre  en  opposition  le  calme  inmiuahle  de  la  nature  avee  les  fu- 
reeurs  huniaines  a  nous  faire  respirer  **  le  parfum  de  la  guerre." 

L'u  autre  fois  il  nous  conduit  a  I'amhuiance,  une  ambulance  improvisee 
dans  la  vieille  es;;lise  au  fond  des  hois;  les  lampe->  voltigeiil,  dechirant  r(jm- 
bre  noire  d'une  iueur  rapide;  une  f^rande  torche  fjoudronnee,  stationnaire, 
jelte  sa  sauvage  flannne  rou^c;  et  cks  nuaj^es  de  (uinee  sur  les  groupes  eon- 
fus,  sur  les  formes  values  couchees  par  terre  ou  (jui  surchargent  ies  banes. 
Le  poete  ne  nous  fait  giace  ni  de  I'oileur  du  sang  eonfontlue  avec  celle  de 
Tether,  ni  de  la  sueur  des  s|)a.smes  supremes,  ni  des  eclairs  c|ui  jaillissent  de 
^in^trunlent  d'acier  en  train  de  iravailler  les  cliairs  en  lanil)eau.\  ;  il  ecarte  le 
couvi.rture  de  laine  (|ui  cuuvre  le  visage  des  mcjrts,  il  recueille  le  demi-sou- 
rire  (jue  lui  adresse  le  jeune  volontaire,  un  enfant,  en  exhalant  son  dernier 
souffle;  il  pense  au  Christ  mort  \>o\\x  ses  frere,  le  sentiment  religieu.x  ct  la 
divine  pitic  relevent  la  rutlesse  de  certains  details  au  point  d'en  faire  une 
beaule  de  plus.  Tour  elre  juste,  il  fandrait  lout  eiter  de  ces  elocpieas  et  fa- 
roiiehes  RouU'incns  de  Tutiiboiir : — la  Tonibe,  la  pauvre  tombe  du  sol- 
dal,  ignorec,  perdue  dans  les  bois  de  la  Virginia,  et  que  le  poete,  qui  I'a  ren- 
conlree  une  fois,  retrouve  sans  cesse  sons  ses  pieds,  au  milieu  des  rues  bru- 
yantes  et  des  fetes  de  la  vie  ; — les  Reves  dc  guerre,  qui  nous  transportent  en 
plein  carnage  avec  trop  de  musicpie  imitative  :  siflleniens  de  balles,  ex|)losion 
d'obus; — le  Camp,  ou  nous  goiuons  un  in"taiit  ce  repos  inquiet  qui  suit  les 
marches  forcees  ct  ]i:ecede  la  battaille  ; — la  I'isioti,  qui  ramene  au  milieu  de 
la  fusillade  le  veteran  revenu  au  foyer,  tandis  qu'  ^  I'heurc  de  minnit  il  s'ac- 
coude  sur  I'oreiller  dc  sa  femme  entlormic,  ct  que  la  douce  respiration  du 
baby  s'^ltive,  retonibe  dans  le  silence. 

Nous  voici  loin  des  professions  materialistes  dont  ffairmillent  telles  pieces 
radicales  que  nous  necitions  tout  a  I'heure  (|u' avec  repugnance.  Wall  Whit- 
man se  contredit  singulierement,  et  on  ne  saurait  s'en  plaindre;  il  nc  se  pique 
pas  du  reste  d'etre  consequent  avec  lui-m6nie.  Les  fanaticjues  pretendent 
<iue  !a  faute  en  est  a  la  multiplicite  d'aspects  que  presentent  les  choses  et  a  la 
prodigicuse  capacite  de  Whitman  pour  tout  sentir  et  tout  conq)rendre,  h.  son 
tiuiversalile  en  un  mot.  Nous  croyons  jilutot  (pi'il  a  reussi  ^  ecrire  des  chosea 
elevees  et  fortes  le  jour  ou  il  s'est  decide  a  glaner  dans  le  champ  fecontl  de 
I'observation,  au  lieu  de  se  ]ierdre  dans  de  vaines  utopics,  des  paradoxes  in- 
senses  et  une  phiiosophie  malsaine  dont  il  est  loin  d'etre  Tinvenieur, — le  jour 
ou  il  s'est  inspire  du  spectacle  inepuisal)]e  de  la  vie  humaine  avec  ses  no'oles 
emotions,  ses  jo'cs  pures  et  ses  suffrances,  au  lieu  de  pretendre,  comnie  il  I'avait 
fait  d'abord,  ii  partagcr  les  sensations  des  choses,  5,  s'assimilcr  aux  lilas,  au 
silcx,  aux  nuages,  aux  agneaux,  aux  volailles  de  la  basse-cour,  voire  au  vieil 
ivrogne  qui  se  traine  en  irebuchant  hors  de  la  taverne ! 

II  est  remarquable  que,  lorsque  Whitman  choisit  bien  ses  sujets  [as  in 
"  Drum  Taps"]  la  forme  est  toujours  plus  correctc,  ce  qui  prouve  que  la  no- 
blesse de  I'expression  est  insepaiable  de  celle  de  la  pens6e.  Le  po^me  lant 
vanle  de  "  Walt  Whitman"  ["Song  of  Myself"]  nous  ramene  en  pleine 
brutalite,  en  plein  egoTsme,  en  plein  paradoxe.     Nous  y  avous  cependant  re- 


From  "Matador**  209 

cucilli  une  belle  pensfee  qui  nous  fait  espferer  que  Ic  spiritualisme  purifi'^ra 
pcul-fitre  un  joiir,  .si  rorj^ucil  du  po6te  de  I'avenir  le  i)crinct,  ccUeinu.->e  icvo- 
lulionnairc  (jui  I'a  trop  Idiij^teuips  inspire.  A  la  suite  trunc  comparaisoneulre 
la  luiit  t-t  la  niort,  il  s'ecrie  : 

Je  trouvals  le  jour  plus  beau  que  tout  le  rcste,  jusqu'A  ceque  j'eussecontempleles  bcautesde 

te  ([ui  n'cst  pas  le  jour. 
Je  croyais  que  imlre  globe  terrestre  etait  assez,  jusqu'i  ce  que  se  fussent  elevees  sans  bruit 

autour  (Je  lui  des  inyriades  d'autres  ylobes ; 
Je  vols  maiiitcnant  (juc  la  vie  iie  peut  tout   nic  montrer,  de  meme  que  le  jour  ne  le  peut,  je 

vois  que  je  dois  attendre  ce  que  me  inontrera  la  mort. 

Restons  sur  ccs  vers  dc  lion  augure.  Sans  admettre  que  le  pretendu  Chris- 
tophe  Colomb  de  I'art  Americain  ait  decouvert  des  regions  jusqu'  ici  inex- 
plorees,  on  ne  peut  nier  (pi'il  poss^de  k  un  haut  degre  ia  passion,  la  verve 
patriotique  et  un  salutaire  mepns  de  la  banalile  ;  niais  que  lui  et  scs  imitaleurs 
(puis  qu'ii  doit  6tre,  helas  !  le  ])ere  d'une  longue  generation  dc  poetes)  ces- 
.sent  de  croire  que  la  grossiertte  soit  de  la  force,  la  bizarrerie  de  I'originalite, 
la  licence  une  noble  hardiesse.  Qu'ils  ne  confondent  pas  I'obscurile  du  Ian- 
gage  avec  la  profondeur,  le  cynisme  avec  la  franchise,  le  vacarme  avec  la 
niusique; — qu'ils  ne  fassent  pas  appel  h  la  haine,  i  Tenvie,  aux  plus  mauvais 
sentimens  de  Tame  sous  pretexte  de  la  r^veiller; — qu'ils  se  degagent  des 
inspirations  factices  (|ui  feraient  croire  en  les  lisant  a  un  mangeur  de  haschich 
ou  a  un  de  ces  buveurs  de  whisky  mele  de  poudre,  comnie  il  en  existe, 
assure-t-on,  dans  quclques  coins  sauvages  de  leur  palrie ; — qu'ils  respectent 
la  pudeur  des  femnics,  puisqu'ils  les  placent,  disent-ils,  plus  haut  qu'elies 
n'ont  jamais  ete ; — qu'ils  prennent  une  attitude  plus  digne  que  celle  de 
boxeur ; — qu'ils  permettent  au  nionde  de  les  juger,  au  lieu  de  se  juger  eux- 
nieme  avec  une  si  altiere  contiance  en  leur  nierite  et  leur  destinees  futures, 
avec  un  enivrement  si  comique  de  leur  proore  personnalile.  Camarade  I  crie 
Walt  Whitman  en  terniinant,  apres  des  prophelies  ([ui  prouvent  qu'il  croit 
dcrire  un  nouvel  evangile,  camarade,  ceci  n'es  pas  un  livre  ....  Quiconque 
le  touche  louche  un  homme ! 

From  the  Nroj  York  "Graphic,"  N'ovember  2^th,  1S7J. — By  Matador. 

{Extracts.) 

It  takes  seven  years  to  learn  to  appreciate  Walt  Whitman's  poetry.  At 
least  it  took  me  precisely  that  time,  and  I  divided  it  as  follows :  For  four 
years  I  ridiculed  Leaves  of  Grass  as  the  most  intricate  idiocy  that  ".  prepos- 
terous pen  had  ever  written.  During  the  next  two  years  1  found  myself  oc- 
casionally wondering  if,  after  all,  there  might  not  be  some  glimmer  of  poetic 
beauty  in  Whitman's  ragged  lines.  And  then  during  the  last  year  of  my 
Walt  Whitman  novitiate  the  grandeur  and  beauty  and  melody  of  his  verse, 
its  vast  and  measureless  expression  of  all  human  thoughts  and  emotions,  were 
suddenly  revealed  to  me.  I  understand  it  now.  I  have  learned  its  purpose 
and  caugh*.  the  subtle  melody  of  its  lines. 

Carelessly  looked  at,  Leav-  of  Grass  is  a  formless  aggregation  of  lines 
without  definite  purpose  and  without  the  slightest  pretence  of  prosody.  Closer 
search  shows  the  thread  that  guides  one  through  the  maze,  and  demonstrates 
its  arlist'C  plan.  Whitman  professes  to  express  all  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
common  to  humanity, — whatever  you  or  I  may  have  felt,  whether  in 
moments  of  joy  or  sorrow ;  whatever  you  or  I  may  have  thought,  \\  hether 
it  was  true  or  false,  honorable  or  shameful,  our  feelings  and  thoughts 
are  expressed  in  this  cosmical  poem.  It  is  this  vastness  of  design  that 
forbids  the  easy  comprehension  of  the  poem ;    that,  permitting  to  the  care- 

i8 


2IO  Appendix  to  Part  II. 

less  observer  only  a  view  of  a  rough  stone  here  or  a  misshapen  gargoyle  there, 
reveals  its  true  propoitions  only  to  the  slow  and  careful  survey  that  sees  it 
from  all  sides,  and,  passing  over  details,  grasps  the  final  meaning  of  the  whole. 
There  is  much  that  seems  trivial  and  ugly  and  meaningless  and  repulsive  in 
Leaves  of  Grass  when  viewed  only  in  detail.  These  things,  however,  have 
their  place.  Without  them  the  poem  would  not  be  complete.  Without  them 
it  would  lack  the  universality  hinted  at  in  the  name,  Leaves  of  Grass .  .  .  . 

There  is  another  sort  of  descriptive  poetry  in  which  the  poet,  instead  of 
setting  definite  objects  before  your  sight,  works  by  creating  in  you  the  feelings 
that  naturally  accompany  certain  situations.  It  is  a  method  that  is  nowhere 
mentioned  in  books  of  rhetoric,  but  it  is  precisely  analogous  to  the  method  of 
Beethoven  and  the  grand  masters  of  symphonic  music.  Their  music  is  not 
descriptive  in  the  sense  of  cataloguing  scenes  and  events,  but  produces  upon 
the  mind  of  the  listener  directly  the  impression  which  such  scenes  and  events 
would  necessarily  j)roduce. 

Of  this  sort  of  subjective  and  descriptive  poetry  Leaves  of  Grass  contains 
frequent  examples.     Here  is  one: 

Of  the  turbid  pool  that  lies  in  the  autumn  forest, 

Of  the  moon  that  descends  the  steeps  of  the  soughing  twilight, 

Toss,  sparkles  of  day  and  dusk — toss  on  the  black  stems  that  decay  in  the  muck. 

Toss  to  the  moaning  gibberish  of  the  dry  limbs. 

There  are  few  definite  points  given  in  these  lines  which  attract  the  eye. 
There  is  really  no  feature  given  us,  but  only  a  vague  mystery  of  hinted  color, 
and  yet  you  at  once  recognize  the  feeling  it  calls  into  being  as  that  which 
belongs  to  a  moonlight  night  spent  in  the  de])th  of  a  lonely  forest. 

Ancl  again,  take  these  lines  that  hint  of  a  midsummer's  night.  They  describe 
nothing,  but  they  perfectly  express  the  physical  pleasure  that  ve  feel  when 
kissed  by  the  warm  and  wandering  night  winds : 

I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night, 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half-held  by  the  night. 

Press  close  bare-bosom'd  night — press  close  magnetic  nourishing  night! 
Night  of  south  winds — night  of  the  lar^^e  few  stars  ! 
Still  nodding  night — mad  naked  summer  night. 

Smile  O  voluptuous  cool-breath'd  earth  ! 

B'arth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees! 

Earth  of  departed  sunset — earth  of  the  mountains  misty  topt! 

Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  fall  moon  just  tinged  with  blue! 

Do  you  say  that  this  is  meaningless  when  each  phrase  is  taken  as  a  distinct 
statement  ?  So  is  the  Seventh  Symphcmy  meaningless  if  you  try  to  translate 
it  bar  by  Ixir.  I  claim,  however,  that  in  these  verses  Walt  Whitman  follows 
the  method  of  the  tone  poets,  and  that  what  you  call  vagueness  and  obscurity 
is  simply  the  art  of  the  musician,  the  only  art  that  transcends  the  art  of  the 
poet. 

From  a  Notice  in  iSyj. 

The  history  of  the  gradual  development  of  Walt  Whitman's  poems  is  sig- 
nificant, almost  geologic.  The  author  having  formed  his  plan,  commenced 
carrying  it  out  by  his  first  book  at  the  age  of  thirty-five  years — "  in  perfect 
health,  hoping  to  cease  not  till  death."  L'jjon  and  around  this  nncleus-volume 
of  1835  have  since  been  steadily  formed  gradual  accretions,  published  in  1857, 
in  1S60,  in  1867,  and  lastly  in  1872 — each  part  of  these  accretions  designed 
.strictly  with  reference  to  its  relative  fitness  as  a  whole — "the  completed  vol- 
ume being  best  understood,"  as  has  been  said,  •'  when  viewed  as  such  a  series 
of  growths,  or  strata,  rising  cMit  from  a  settled  foundation  or  centre." 


Idealism  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  21 1 

There  is  probably  no  analogous  case  in  the  history  of  literature  where  the  result  of  a  pro- 
found artistic  plan  or  conception — first  launched  forth,  and  briefly,  yet  sufficiently  exempli- 
fied, as  in  the  sni.ill  vohune  (  f  the  Leu7'es  of  1855,  taking  for  foundation  Man  in  his  fulness 
of  blood,  power,  aniativeness,  health,  pliysique,  and  as  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  objective 
world — a  pl.ui  so  ste.iddy  adhered  to,  yet  so  audaciously  and  freely  built  out  of  .uid  upon,  and 
with  such  epic  Consistency,  after  ihat  start  of  185=;,  develojied  in  '57,  'fri,  and  '66,  in  succes- 
sive moral,  esthetic,  and  rcli;;ions  st.iges,  each  absorbing  the  previous  ones,  but  striding  on 
far  ahead  (.if  them— gradu.illy  ni,Kle  more  and  more  emotional,  meditative,  and  patri'jtic — 
vitalized,  heated  to  almost  luibeaiable  fervency  by  the  author's  personal  part  in  the  war, 
comi)osing  his  songs  of  it  in  actu,il  contact  with  its  stibjtcts,  on  the  very  field,  or  surrouiuled 
by  the  woimded  "after  the  battle  brought  in" — chanting  undismayed  the  strong  cli,iiU  of  the 
Inscp.irable  Union,  amid  the  vehement  crises  and  sturniy  dangers  (jf  the  period  ;  anil  so  grad- 
ually arriving  at  the 'Mmpleted  book  of  1871-2,  and  crowning  ,ill  in  it  with  (he  electric  :uid 
Solemn  poems  of  death  and  immortality — has  so  justified,  and  beyond  measure  justified,  its 
fust  ambitious  plan  and  promise. — yolin  Biirroughn's  Notks. 

The  book  is  the  son;^  of  Idealism.  Underneath  every  pat;e  hirks  the  con- 
viction that  all  we  fancy  we  see,  may  be  btit  apparitions — antl  that 

"  The  real  Something  has  yet  to  be  known." 

Its  scope  and  purpose  are,  therefore,  by  no  means  merely  intellectual,  or 
iniaj^inative  or  esthetic.  Usinjj  the  term  in  its  late  t  an'i  largest,  and  not  at 
all  in  its  dogmatic  and  scholastic  sense,  Walt  Whitman's  pm-try  is,  in  its  in- 
tention,/////(Af('/>///V.  It  is  beyond  the  moral  law,  and  will  proiiably  therefore 
always  appal  many.  The  moral  law,  it  is  true,  is  present,  penetratinjf  every 
verse,  like  shalts  of  light.  But  the  whole  relentless  kosmos  out  of  which 
come  monsters  antl  crime  and  the  inexhaustible  germs  of  all  the  heat  of  sex, 
antl  all  the  lawless  rut  and  arrogant  greed  of  the  universe,  and  especially  of 
the  human  race,  are  also  there.  Strange  and  paradoxical  are  these  pages. 
They  accept  and  celebrate  Nature  in  absolute  faith.  Then,  as  over  anil  out 
of  some  unbounded  sea  of  turmoil,  and  whirl  and  hiss  of  stormy  waves,  hur- 
rying and  tumbling  and  chaotic — which  they  largely  are — still,  by  attem|)ts, 
iuilications  at  least,  rise  voices,  .sounds  of  the  mightiest  strength  and  gladdest 
hope  yet  given  to  man,  with  undisinayed,  unfaltering  faith  in  destiny  and  life. 

The  history  of  the  book,  thus  considered,  not  only  resembles  ^nd  tallies,  in  certain  respects, 
the  developmei.t  of  the  great  System  of  Idealistic  Philos'jphy  in  (lermany,  by  the  "illus- 
trious four" — except  that  the  development  of  I.eai'cs  0/ Crass  has  been  carried  on  within  the 
region  of  a  single  mind, — but  it  is  to  be  demonstrated,  by  study  and  comparison,  that  the 
same  theory  of  the  essential  identity  of  the  spiritual  and  the  material  worlds,  the  shows  of 
Nature,  the  progress  of  civilization,  the  play  of  passions,  the  human  iiuellect,  ami  lh<:  rela- 
tions between  it  and  the  concrete  universe,  which  Kant  prepared  the  way  for,  and  Fichte, 
Sihelling,  and  Hegel  have  given  expression  and  statement  in  their  system  of  transcendental 
Metaphysics— this  author  has,  with  equal  entirety,  expressed  and  stated  in  i.ea7>es  0/ Crasi, 
from  a  poet's  point  of  view — singing  afresh,  out  of  it,  the  song  of  the  visible  and  invisible 
worlds — renewing,  reconstructing,  consistently  with  the  modern  genius,  and  deeper  and 
wider  than  ever,  the  promises  of  immortality— endowing  the  elements  of  fiith  and  pride  with 
a  vigor  and  I'lisi'tiih/e  bef  ire  unknown — and  furnishing  to  the  measureless  audience  of  human- 
ity the  r)nly  great  Imaginative  Work  it  yet  possesses,  in  which  the  objective  universe  and 
^lan,  his  soul,  are  observed  and  outlined,  and  the  theory  of  Human  Personality  and  Char- 
acter projected,  from  the  interior  and  hidden,  but  absolute  background,  of  that  magnificent 
System. — yohn  liur roughs' s  Notes. 

It  will  always  remain,  however,  impossible  to  clearly  and  fully  state  either 
the  theory  of  Walt  Wliitman's  com|)ositifm,  or  describe  his  poems,  its  results. 
They  may  be  absorbed  out  of  themselves,  but  only  after  many  Jierusals.  They 
are  elusive  and  puzzling,  like  their  moilel,  Nature,  and  form,  in  fact,  a  />rr.u»i, 
jicrhnps  a  s/>in'/,  more  than  a  book.  They  read  clearest  t«}te-a-fcte,  and  in  the 
ojion  air,  or  by  the  sea,  or  t)n  the  mountains,  or  in  one's  own  room,  alone,  at 
uiglit.  They  are  to  be  inhaled  like  i>'.'rfuines,  and  felt  like  the  magnetism  of 
n  jiresencc.  They  rC'  .lire  affinity  in  the  tastes  and  (pialities  of  the  reader. 
There  is,  mainly,  ti;;it  in  them  akin  to  concrete  objects,  tlie  earth,  the  animals, 
storms,  the  actual  sunrise  or  sunset,  and  not  to  the  usual  fine  writing  or  im- 
agery uf  puenis.     Yet  their  subject  U  nut  abstract  ur  irrational  Nature,  but 


212  Appendix  to  Part  II. 

Hviiifj,  heart-beating  humanity,  with  all  its  interests  and  aspirations,  its  sad- 
ness and  its  joy. 

It  is  to  be  added  that  the  \vh<de  work,  as  it  now  stands,  the  result  of  the 
several  accretions,  singularly  hinycs  on  the  late  Suce.s-.ion  war. 

In  the  "  Contenijiorary  Review,"  for  December,  1S75,  there  was  a  long  and 
elaborate  article  l)y  i'ctcr  Ijayne  on  "Walt  Whitman's  poems,"  written,  evi- 
dently, after  some  study  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  I  know  nothing  myself  about 
this  Peter  liayne,  and  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  he  is  an  able  and  conscien- 
tious man.  According  to  him  Walt  Whitman  has  almost  every  quality  that  a 
writer  ought  not  to  have,  and  not  a  single  one  that  a  man  must  have  to  be  a 
poet.  He  says:  "  If  I  ever  saw  anything  in  print  that  deserved  to  lie  charac- 
terized as  atrociously  bad,  it  is  the  poetry  of  Walt  Whitman."  He  says  that 
those  who  praise  this  poetry  "  ai)pear  to  me  to  be  inlaying  off  on  the  public  a 
well-intentioned,  probably  good-humored,  but  really  cruel  hoax." 

Mr.  liayne  finds  Leaves  of  Grass  "  inflated,"  "  wordy,"  "  foolish,"  its  orif  i  - 
ality  is  a  "  knack,"  a  "trick."  The  poems  are  "extravagant,"  "paradoxical," 
"  hyperbolical,"  "  nonsensical,"  "  indecent,"  "  insane,"  "  dull,"*"  irremedica- 
Lly  vile,"  "nauseous  drivel,"  full  of  "extravagant  conceit"  and  "idiocy." 
In  them  Walt  Whitman  "mumbles  truisms,"  talks  "pretentious  twaddle." 
Leaves  of  Grass  abounds  with  "the  thoughts  of  other  men  spoiled  by  obtuse- 
ness,"  it  is  "inhumanly  insolent,"  "self-contradictory,"  "venomously  nipJig- 
nant,"  "mawkish."  About  the  middle  of  his  article  he  announces  that  Walt 
Whitman  "  is  a  demonstrated  quack."  He  might  one  would  think  have  been 
content  to  stop  there,  but  he  goes  on  to  say  that  Leaves  of  Grass  is  "  void  of 
significance,"  "brainless,"  "  a  poor  piece  of  mannerism,"  "  wretchedly  work- 
ed," "rant  and  rubbish,"  a  "jingle,"  "linguistic  silliness,"  "verbiage," 
"  hopelessly  bad  writing."  In  a  somewhat  long  article  these  complimentary 
terms  are  used  over  and  over  and  over  again,  so  that,  by  the  time  we  finish 
reading  it,  Mr.  Bayne  does  not  leave  us  in  any  doubt  as  to  his  opinion  of 
Leaves  of  Grass  and  of  its  author.  But  in  case  such  doubt  should  remain  in 
the  reader's  mind,  he  closes  his  review  as  follows: 

"This  is  the  political  philosophy  of  bedlam,  unchained  in  these  ages  chiefly 
through  the  influence  of  Rousseau,  which  has  blasted  the  hopes  of  freedon 
wherever  it  has  had  tlie  chance,  an<l  which  must  be  chained  up  again,  witli 
inefVai)le  contempt,  if  the  self-government  of  nations  is  to  mean  anything  else 
than  the  death  and  jMitrescence  of  civilization.  lncai)able  of  true  poetical 
originality.  Whitman  had  the  cleverness  to  invent  a  literary  trick,  and  the 
shrewdness  to  stick  to  it.  As  a  V'ankee  phenomenon,  to  be  good-humoredly 
laughed  at,  and  to  receive  that  moderate  pecuniary  remuneration  which  nature 
allows  to  vivacious  (juacks,  he  would  have  been  in  his  place  ;  but  when  influen- 
tial critics  introduce  liini  to  the  Kngli^h  |>ul)lie  as  ;<  great  poet,  the  thing  becomes 
too  serious  for  a  joke.  Wliile  reading  Whitman  in  the  reeollt  ction  of  what 
has  been  said  of  him  by  those  gentlemen,  I  realized  with  bitter  painfulness 
how  deadly  is  the  peril  that  our  literatuie  may  pass  into  conditions  of  horriltle 
di^eabe,  the  raging  flame  uf  fever  taking  the  place  uf  natural  heat,  the  raving 


Poets^  Tributes.  213 

of  (lelirium  superseding  the  enthusiasm  of  poetical  imagination,  the  distortions 
of  titanic  spasms  caricaturing  the  movenienls,  dance-like  and  music-measured, 
of  harmonious  strength." 

From  Joaquin  Miller'' s  Washington  Lecture,  iSj^. 
Here  in  this  high  capital,  there  was  once  a  colossal  mind  ;  an  old,  and  an 
honorable  old  man,  witli  a  soul  as  grand  as  lloiner\ — the  Mdton  ol  America. 
lie  walked  these  strcct^^  for  years,  a  plain,  brave  old  man,  who  was  kind  even 
to  your  dogs.  lie  had  done  great  service,  in  an  humlile  way,  in  the  army; 
he  had  vvrillen  great  books,  which  had  been  translated  in  all  tongues  and  read 
in  every  land  save  his  own.  In  consideration  thereof  he  was  given  a  little 
place  under  the  Government,  where  he  could  jjarely  earn  bread  enough  for 
himself  and  his  old  mother.  He  went  up  and  th)wn,  at  work  here  ibr  years. 
You  mocked  at  him  when  you  saw  him.  At  last,  stricken  with  palsy,  he  left 
the  place,  leaning  upon  his  staff,  to  go  away  and  die.  I  saw  him  but  <he 
other  Jay,  dying,  destitute,  (irand  old  Walt  Whitman  !  Even  now  he  looks 
like  a  Titan  god!  Don't  tell  me  that  a  man  gives  all  his  youth  and  ail  his 
years  in  the  pursuit  of  art,  enduring  poverty  in  the  face  of  scorn,  for  notiiing. 
That  man  shall  live!  He  shall  live  when  yon  mighty  dome  of  your  Capitol 
no  longer  lifts  its  rounded  shoulders  against  the  circles  of  time.  No,  no! 
We  laugh  too  much.  We  laugh  at  each  other;  we  laugh  at  art;  we  laugh  at 
men  whom  we  have  placed  in  exalted  positions.  We  caricature  great  and 
good  men,  and  disgrace  only  ourselves.  We  laugh  at  old  men  and  old 
women.  If  ever  I  grow  old  I  shall  go  to  Europe,  that  I  may  be  respected  in 
my  age.  We  laugh  at  religion  and  we  laugh  at  love.  There  is  no  reverence 
in  us ;  we  are  a  race  of  clowns. 

LEONARD  WHEELER  TO  WALT  WHITMAN. 

O  pure  heart  singer  of  the  human  frame 

Divine,  whose  poesy  disdains  control 

Of  slavish  bonds!  each  poem  is  a  soul. 
Incarnate  born  of  tliee,  and  given  thy  name. 
Thy  genius  is  unshackled  as  a  llame 

That  sunward  soars,  the  central  light  its  goal ; 

Thy  thoughts  are  lightnings,  and  thy  numbers  roll 
In  Nature's  thunders  that  put  art  to  shame. 

Exalter  of  the  land  that  gave  thee  birth, 
Though  she  insult  thy  grand  gray  years  with  wrong 

Of  infamy,  foul-branding  thee  with  scars 

Of  felon-hate,  still  shall  thou  be  on  earth 
Revered,  and  in  Eame's  lirmanient  of  song 

Thy  name  shall  blaze  among  the  eternal  stars ! 

The  London  "  Daily  News,"  March  13,  1S76,  had  published  a  long  and 
elo<|uent  letter  from  Robert  lUichanan,  about  W.  W'.,  who  was  then  lying 
very  ill  and  very  poor,  at  Camden.  Mr.  15. 's  letter  aroused  a  general  and 
exciting  volley  of  journalistic  and  editorial  comments,  both  in  Great  Britain 
and  America.  There  were  several  Atlantic  cable  telegrams  or- •*  messages" 
exchanged  by  newspaper;  on  the  subject.  Certain  New  York  writers  resented 
R.  H.'s  accusations — attacking  Leaves  of  Grass  and  its  author  ia  a  furious 
style.     The  following  is  a  sample : 


214  Appendix  to  Part  II. 

From  "  Appleton^s  yoiirnal^''  April  ist,  i8jb. 
{Extract.) 

The  conclusion  here  arrived  at,  that  Whitman,  in  his  literary  life  and 

methods,  is  a  mere  trickster,  is  verified  by  his  history.  There  was  nothing 
peculiar  about  his  early  career.  IJclonging  to  a  respectable  family  of  farmers 
on  Long  Island,  he  went  to  school  lil^e  other  boys.  When  he  grew  to  be  a 
young  man,  he  taught  school  like  many  other  young  men.  When  the  cele- 
brated hard-cider  and  coon-skin  political  campaign  stirred  up  the  community 
in  1848,  Whitman  was  drawn  into  it,  and  spouteil  democracy  from  the  stump, 
as  it  is  very  common  for  young  men  to  do  in  the  country.  Waxing  ambitious, 
and  wishing  to  escape  democratic  labor  in  the  country,  he  came  to  New  York 
to  get  a  living  by  his  wits.  Well  introduced  by  political  acquaintance,  he 
took  to  the  business  of  writing  for  newspapers  and  magazines.  He  wrote 
stories,  essays,  and  articles  of  all  sorts  that  he  could  sell.  He  got  access  to 
the  "  Democratic  Review,"  then  the  leading  literary  periodical  of  New 
York,  edited  by  Hon.  J.  L.  CSullivan.  His  contributions  to  this  magazine 
from  1840  to  1850,  signed  "  Walter  Whitman,"  appear  among  those  of  Whit- 
tier,  Poe,  IJrownson,  Hawthorne,  Tuckerman,  Curtis,  Godwin,  and  Taylor. 
They  are  decorous,  jejune,  and  commonplace,  contrasting  strongly  with  the 
general  quality  of  the  magazine,  and  deserving  no  attenticm,  they  attracted 
none.  Whitman  also  wrote  for  the  Sunday  papers  and  the  daily  press — 
turning  his  hand  to  anything  he  could  get,  and,  if  we  are  not  mistaken,  when 
the  Washingtonian  movement  rose  he  availed  himself  of  the  excitement,  and 
wrote  a  temperance  novel.  He  was,  moreover,  a  pleasant  gentleman,  of 
agreeable  address,  and  went  into  society  as  well  attired  as  his  precarious 
resources  would  allow.  In  short  he  was  an  entirely  respectable  person,  with 
nothing  marked  about  him,  and  meeting  with  a  dubious  success  due  to  moder- 
ate ability,  qualified  by  excessive  indolence. 

Such  was  Whitman's  "  foreground."  He  had  a  dozen  or  fifteen  years'  ex- 
perience of  practical  literature  and  miscellaneous  journalism  in  the  metropolis, 
with  every  opportunity  to  win  a  position  and  make  himself  known  if  he  had 
been  capable  of  it.  But  Whitman  had  an  ambition,  born  of  egregious  vanity, 
and  he  was  not  content  with  the  obscurity  from  which  he  had  been  unal)le  to 
escape  in  the  open  competitions  of  literature.  Correctly  concluding  that  it 
was  of  no  use  to  pursue  that  tack  longer,  and  determined  to  became  a  marked 
man  somehow,  he  resolved  to  change  his  tactics.  If  he  could  not  win  fame, 
he  would  have  notoriety;  if  the  critics  would  not  recognize  him,  he  must  find 
people  that  would,  hut,  whatever  may  have  been  his  ratiocination  in  the 
case,  he  changed  his  manner  of  life,  and  took  to  consorting  w  ith  loafers. 
Donning  a  tarpaulin,  blouse,  and  red  fiannel  shirt,  cons])icuously  open,  he 
snubbcil  conventionalities,  clambered  on  the  outside  of  the  omnibuses,  culti- 
vated the  drivers,  and  soon  became  a  hero  among  the  roughs.  Sauntering 
leisurely  along  the  thoroughfares  and  lingering  at  show-windows  in  his  jaunty, 
uncouth  costume,  with  a  (juiet  air  of  defying  the  world,  he  soon  attracted  at- 
tention, and  began  to  be  talked  of  and  incpiired  about.  He  thus  got  recog- 
nition as  "Walt  Whitman,"  patron  and  pride  of  the  ruder  elements  of  so- 
ciety. 

Coincident  with  this  external  transformation  there  was  an  internal  change 
e<iualiy  marked.  He  made  a  strike  in  literature  from  his  new  standijoint. 
He  had  been  scribbling  away  for  years  to  no  purpose,  and  at  last  he  charged 
his  old  carbine  with  smut  to  the  very  muzzle,  let  drive,  and  brought  down  the 
first  of  American  thinkers  at  the  first  shot.  More  literally,  he  issuc<l  a  '*  pome," 
so  called  in  his  new  vernacular,  entitled  Leaves  of  Grass,     Mr.  Whitman  liad 


Arran  Leigh,  England.  215 

never  been  celebrated ;  he  had  found  nobody  to  celebrate  him,  and  so  the  first 
words  of  his  new  book  were,  "  I  celelirate  myself."  It  was  a  performance  of 
unparalleled  audacity.  In  total  contrast  with  all  that  he  had  ever  done  be- 
fore, It  was  an  outs"a<^e  upon  decency,  and  not  fit  to  be  seen  in  any  respectable 
house.  Impudent  and  ridiculous  as  the  book  was,  it  would  not  have  been 
easy  to  get  it  before  the  public,  but  accident  and  the  author's  cunning  favored 
him.  He  sent  a  copy  to  Mr.  Emerson,  who  returned  a  very  Haltering,  liut 
probably  hasty  private  note,  not  dreaming  ihat  any  public  use  would  be  made 
of  it.  Walt  printed  it  at  once,  and  the  weight  of  Emerson's  name  sent  the 
book  straightway  into  circulation.  Then  people  made  jiilgrimages  to  see  the 
extraordinary  man  with  the  curious  aspect  that  had  made  such  an  astonishing 
book,  and  of  whom  nobody  had  ever  heard  before ;  and  the  notion  was  spread 
that  he  was  the  original  genius  of  Nature  itself,  unwarped  by  culture,  un- 
spoiled by  society,  careless  of  conventions,  because  dwelling  far  above  them 
in  the  realm  of  his  own  sublime  individuality.  The  external  evidence  thus 
coincides  with  Mr.  Bayne's  analysis  of  Whitman's  writings  in  showing  that 
they  are  but  an  affectation  and  a  pretence.  Those  may  believe  who  will 
that  when  he  entered  upon  the  role  of  loafer,  dressed  up  accordingly,  vul- 
garized his  name,  and  wrote  a  book  fdled  with  drivel  and  indecency,  Mr. 
Whitman  suddenly  became  the  inspired  poet  of  democracy,  and,  as  .Swin- 
burne says,  "  the  greatest  of  American  voices;"  but  against  such  a  view  com- 
mon-sense protests.  If  his  English  devotees  wish  to  testify  their  appreciation 
of  Whitman's  life  and  labors  in  a  substantial  way,  let  them  quietly  remit  their 
sovereigns  and  do  so.  But  let  us  be  spared  their  insulting  telegrams.  The 
less  publicity  they  give  to  their  proceedings  the  better. 

ARRAN  LEIGH  (ENGLAND)  TO  WALT  WHITMAN. 

"  /,  thirty-six  years  old,  in  perfect  health,  begin, 
Hoping  to  cease  not  till  death." — Chants  De.mocratic, 

They  say  that  thou  art  sick,  art  growing  old, 

Thou  Poet  of  unconquerable  health. 

With  youth  far-stretching,  through  the  golden  wealth 
Of  autumn,  to  Death's  frostful,  friendly  cold; 
The  never-blenching  eyes,  that  did  behold 

Life's  fair  ami  foul,  with  measureless  content. 

And  gaze  ne'et  sated,  saddened  as  they  bent 
Over  the  dying  soldier  in  the  fold 

Of  thy  large  comrade  love: — then  broke  the  tear! 
War-dream,  field-vigil,  the  becjucathed  kiss. 

Have  brought  old  age  to  tliee  ;  yet.  Master,  now, 
'  Cease  not  thy  song  to  us;  lest  we  should  miss 

A  death-chant  of  indomitable  cheer. 

Blown  as  a  gale  from  God ; — Oh,  sing  it  thou  ! 

From  the  Catndcn,  N.  J.,  "New  Kefublu;''  April  ist,  1S76. 

Some  idiot,  or  worse  (undoubtedly  worse),  has  an  editorial  jiiece  in  the 
New  York  "  Tribune,"  30th  in^t.,  telling  how,  years  since,  a  family  of  four 
children  lived  on  the  salary  of  a  clerkship  in  the  U.  S.  Attorney  Clencral's 
office — which  clerkship,  at  the  instance  of  the  "authors  of  Washington." 
with  Mr.  E.  C.  Stedman  at  "the  head"  of  them,  was  taken  away  from  thy 
sustenance  of  the  four  children,  and  bestowed  on  (of  all  the  men  in  the  world  !) 
Walt  Whitman !     If  this  story  is  intended  as  a  joke,  the  fun  of  u  is  loo  deep 


2l6  Appendix  to  Part  II. 

to  be  fathomable.  Fortunately  for  the  "authors  of  Washinj^ton  "  and  the 
i:;enllL-inan  at  "the  head"  of  lliem,  it  is  so  entire  and  aljsoluie  a  falsehood 
that  it  transcends  the  standard  even  of  that  niaj^nilicent  District.  We  hope, 
f.)r  llie  sanity  of  "llie  head  "  afcjresaid,  tiiat  he  had  notliing  to  do  with  start- 
wv^  so  small  and  dirty  a  fiction. 

Later. — Since  the  above,  appears  a  special  card  from  Mr.  Stethnan  (see 
"Tribune,"  3l-'t),  fully  e- oneraling  that  j;entieniaii  himself,  and  jilacing  him 
in  a  perfectly  candid  and  h()noral)le  attitude  in  the  matter,  as,  indeed,  was  to 
be  expected,  to  he  consistent  with  his  whole  life. 

IJut  who,  or  rather  ivhat^  has  been  writing  the  big  and  little  editorials*  that 
have  appeared  in  the  "  Tribune  "  during  the  past  week  ?  Whitman's  works, 
now  finished — and  his  life  now  near  its  close — are  beginning  to  claim  serious 
judgment.  The  points  involved  are  the  deepest  in  nationality,  art,  literature, 
lias  the  "  Tril)une  "  nothing  to  olTer  but  these  frivolous  slurs,  hardly  up  to  tiie 
level  of  the  Hash  papers?  or  to  invent  shameless  and  petty  personal  items? 
or  to  reprint  the  foppish  venom  and  aristocratic  sputter  of  the  "  Saturday 
Review  "  ? 

From  the  "Camden  Post"  March  2glh,  iSyj. 

Walt  Whitman. — Hic  visits  New  York  after  five  years'  AriSFNCE — 
Hkju-tone  society  now  takes  him  to  ns  hosom — Vet  he  rides  again 
AToi'  OF  the  Hroadway  Omnihuses  and  fraternizes  with  drivers  and 
liOATMEN. — After  an  absence  and  sickness  of  nearly  five  years,  says  a  New 
York  ])aper  of  March  28lh,  1877,  the  "old  gray  poet"  has  relumed  tempora- 
rily to  his 

Mast-hemm'd  Manhattan, 

and,  in  moderation,  has  been  all  the  past  month  visiting,  riding,  receiving,  and 
jaunting  in  and  about  the  city,  and,  in  good-natured  response  to  jiresbure,  has 
even  ajjpeared  two  or  three  times  in  brief,  offdiand  puldic  speeches. 

Mr.  Whitman,  at  present  near  his  fifty-ninth  birth-day,  is  better  in  health 
and  appearance  than  at  any  time  since  his  paralytic  attack  at  Washington  in 
1873.  Passing  through  many  grave  experiences  since  that  period,  he  still 
remains  tall  and  stout,  with  the  same  Horid  face,  with  his  great  masses  of  hair 
and  beard  whiter  than  ever.  Costumed  in  his  usual  entire  suit  of  English  gray, 
with  loose  sack-coat  and  trousers,  broad  shirt-collar  open  at  the  neck  and 
guiltless  of  tie,  he  has,  through  the  month,  been  the  recipient  and  centre  of 
social  gatherings,  parlors,  club  meetings,  lunches,  dinners,  and  even  dress 
receptions — all  of  which  he  has  taken  with  steady  good  nature,  coolness, 
antl  UKjderation. 

As  he  sat  on  the  platform  of  the  Liberal  Club  on  Friday  night  last  he  looked 
like  an  old  (Quaker,  especially  as,  in  response  to  the  suggestion  of  the  Tresident, 
and  sitting  near  a  wind<nv-draught,  he  unhesitatingly  put  on  his  old  white 
broadbrim,  and  wore  it  the  whole  evening.  In  answer  to  pressing  requests, 
however,  toward  the  close,  he  rose  to  let  the  audience  see  him  more  fully,  and, 
doffing  his  hat,  smilingly  said,  in  ros|)onse  to  calls  for  a  speech,  that  he  "inu-t 
decline  to  take  any  other  part  than  listener,  as  he  knew  nothing  of  the  subject 
under  debate  ^blue  glass),  and  would  not  add  to  the  general  stock  of  mis 
information." 

At  the  full-dress  reception  of  tlie  Portfolio  and  Palette  Clubs  on  the  Fifth 
Avenue,  a  few  nights  previous,  as  he  slowly  crossed  the  room  to  withdraw,  he 
was  saluted  by  a  markedly  peculiar  murmur  of  applause,  from  a  crowded  au- 

♦  They  were  written  by  the  late  Uayard  Taylor. 


A  Tourist's  Intcrviezv — 1877.  217 

dicnceof  the  most  cultured  and  elegant  society  of  New  York,  including  most 
of  tlio  artists  of  the  city.  It  was  a  singularly  sjiontaneous  and  n^rt'j.f///;' testi- 
monial, joined  in  heartily  by  the  ladies,  and  the  old  man's  cheeks,  a>  he  hob- 
bled along  through  the  kindly  applause  antl  smiles,  showed  a  deep  Hush  of 
gratified  feeling. 

Mr.  Whitman  has  been  the  guest,  most  of  the  month,  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John- 
ston, of  113  East  Tenth  Street,  whose  parlors  have  been  thrown  open  on  two 
special  occasions  for  informal  public  receptions  in  compliment  to  him,  which 
were  crowded,  happy,  and  brilliant  to  the  highest  degree. 

Nearly  every  fair  day  Mr.  Whitman  has  e-xplored  the  city  and  neighbor- 
hood, often  as  ne^ir  as  possible  after  the  fashion  of  old  times.  Again  he  has 
taken  rides  up  and  down  Broadway  on  top  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  and  Twenty- 
tliird  Street  omnibuses,  and  talked  with  his  old  chums,  the  drivers,  receiving 
incessant  salutes  of  raised  hands  as  he  passed  and  was  recognized.  He  has 
been  over  to  Brooklyn  ami  taken  the  unsurpassed  views  again  from  the  hills 
of  I'ort  Greene,  and  ocean  vistas  from  Prospect  Park.  Again,  too,  he  has 
lingered  for  several  trips  up  in  the  pilot-house,  crossing  Fulton  ferry,  conferring 
with  his  old  comrades  the  pilots  and  deck  hands.  Again  he  has  dwelt  long 
on  the  picturesi[ucncss,  beauty,  and  une(iualled  show  of  our  waters  and  bay. 

Walt  Whitman  will  finish  his  lifty-eighth  year  on  the  coming  31SI  May,  that 
being  his  birth-day.  Physically,  liis  paralysis  is  still  uncured,  and  he  has 
serious  stomachic  trouble,  and  bad  lameness,  but  he  gets  around  (pute  a  good 
deal,  keeps  always  e.\cellent  spirits,  believes  thoroughly  not  only  111  the  future 
world,  but  the  present,  and  especially  in  our  American  part  of  it. 

A  foreign  tourist  and  interviewer,  under  date  of  March  30th,  1877,  writes: 
I  have  to-day,  with  two  companions,  just  visited  Walt  Whitman,  at  Camden, 
New  Jersey,  and  had  a  good  talk  with  him.  He  takes  the  late  English  whirl- 
wind about  him  and  his  writings  very  quietly.  I  am  convinced  he  really  cares 
nothing  for  popuLir  or  literary  incense — views  things  mainly,  I  should  say, 
from  his  o\\n  standix>int,  and  is,  as  the  world  goes,  a  cpieer,  jjroud  man. 
That  he  is  poor  (which  he  really  i>),  that  the  American  publishers  won't  jiub- 
lish  him,  tiiat  tlie  magazines  reject  his  MSS.,  that  the  banls  of  fame  here 
ignore  him,  and  that  all  the  big  poetic  collection-books  leave  him  out  in  the 
cold,  are  facts  which  I  believe  in  my  soul  he  is  far  more  proud  of  than  ]nit 
out  by.  He  has  a  clear  gray  eye,  and  his  manners,  though  a  little  haughty 
■,\\\A  pent,  combine,  with  entire  self-possession,  a  wonderful  warmth  and  mag- 
netism. The  only  bitterness  that  escaped  him  was  about  the  jiersistent  em- 
bezzlement and  theft,  during  his  illness  and  helplessness  of  the  last  three 
years,  by  his  agents  (they  sold  for  him  on  commission)  of  the  deeply-needed 
income  due  from  his  New  V'ork  l)0(jk-sales,  "  which,  fortunately,"  he  added 
in  a  dry  tone,  "were  not  so  large,  either."  He  is  permanently  paralyzed, 
walks  only  a  little,  sometimes  hardly  at  all,  and  suffers  from  a  chronic  affec- 
tion of  the  stomach  ;  but  keeps  uji,  and  often  gets  on  the  river  here,  the  Dela- 
ware, and  over  to  Philadel|)hia.  (Jn  my  speaking  of  the  .Secession  w.^ir.and  at  the 
re(iuest  of  one  of  our  ])arty,  a  lady,  he  riaii  his  poem  of  "  The  Wound-Dres- 
ser."' (I  have  felt  disposed  since  to  fasten  that  name  upon  him.)  Wliitman 
is  tall,  middling  heavy  in  build  of  body,  with  a  large  head  and  red  face,  very 
plentiful  hair  and  beartl  (white  as  snow),  talks  neither  much  nor  little,  and 
with  a  strong  and  musical  voice.  Finally,  1  think  the  old  fellow  the  most 
human  being  I  have  ever  met. 

19 


2i8  Appendix  to  Part  II. 

Letter  from  Greenock,  Scotland,  iSjg. 

I  first  became  acquainted  with  Leaves  of  Grass  four  years  ago  (when  I  was 
twenty  two  years  of  aye  I  through  Rossctti's  book  of  selections,  rreviously 
1  ha<l  i)cen  familiar  with  C'arlyie,  and  then  with  Goethe,  and  then  with  the  prose 
and  verse  of  luuerson.  But  it  was  more  than  all  these  my  own  deep  expe- 
rience that  prepared  me  for  receiving  Walt  Whitman's  writings  with  instant 
and  passionate  acceptance.  I  shall  never  forget  my  sensations  on  reading 
certain  parts  of  the  prose  preface  to  the  [tirst]  Leaves  of  Grass,  I  said  again 
and  again,  "  Here  the  universal  mother  herself  is  speaking," — for  example,  in 
regard  to  pride  and  sympathy,  "  Neither  can  stretch  too  far  while  it  stretches 
in  company  with  the  other."  Then  I  found  it  said  of  the  "greatest  poet," 
"  He  is  indifferent  which  chance  happens,  and  which  possible  contingency  of 
fortune  or  misfortune."  It  was  as  if  I  had  heard  speaking  the  very  inmost 
spirit  of  Christ,  and  for  the  next  few  weeks  I  remember  I  was  quite  feverish 
with  joy,  and  no  wonder,  for  I  then  for  the  first  time  saw  clearly.  I5y  degrees 
I  saw  what  is  called  evil  to  be  but  immaturity,  and  1  saw  the  immortal  beauty 
of  the  laws  of  pain.  I  did  not,  at  that  time,  dwell  much  upon  the  thought 
of  immortality,  and  had  not  yet  penetrated  to  Walt  Whitman's  conception  of 
it,  but  my  faith  was  without  cloud  ;  I  knew  I  had  "  Come  well,  and  should  go 
well."  1  saw  that  one  cannot  possibly  lose  anything,  for  1  saw  that  every 
condition  is  protitable  and  blessed.  I  saw  how  great  it  is  to  be  subject  to  the 
eternal  laws  even  when  they  maim  or  break  us.  I  saw  that  heroism  is  reached 
when  one  is  able  to  see  and  say  triumjihantly  at  any  possible  worst,  "  Yes,  I 
may  be  broken,  but  the  law  that  breaks  me  is  righteous  ancl  immortal." 
Walt  Whitman  seemed  to  have  bidden  the  cosmos  lie  close  upon  me  that  it 
might  enter  into  me  at  every  pore.  It  seemed  that  he  had  taken  me  by  wild 
and  rejoicing  seas  and  hills,  and  transformed  me  from  a  doubter  and  despairer 
into  a  piece  of  nature  capable  of  strength  and  joy.  Since  I  have  known  Leaves 
of  Gras  ,  books,  mere  reading,  is  less  important  to  me  than  formerly.  I  like 
be^t  to  be  out  in  the  open  air,  and  among  men  and  women  (old  and  young)  and 
children,  and  animals,  and  when  I  ask  myself  whether  others  can  possibly  feel 
the  same  delight  in  living  that  I  do,  I  am  constantly  reminded  that  life  and 
death  might  have  seemed  less  great  to  me  (and  to  how  many,  many  more 
throughout  the  world)  but  for  Walt  V  hitman. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER  TO  WALT  WHITMAN. 

O  Titan  soul,  ascend  your  starry  steep, 

On  golden  stair,  to  gods  and  storied  men ! 

Ascend!  nor  care  where  thy  traducers  creep. 

For  what  may  well  be  said  of  prophets,  when 

A  world  that's  wicked  comes  to  call  them  good  ? 

Ascend  and  sing!     As  kings  of  thought  who  stood 
On  stormy  heights,  and  held  far  lights  to  men, 

Stand  thou,  and  shout  above  the  tumbled  roar, 

Lest  brave  ships  drive  and  break  against  the  shore. 

What  though  thy  sounding  song  be  roughly  set  ? 

Parnassus'  self  is  rough  !     Give  thou  the  thought, 
The  golden  ore,  the  gems  that  few  forget; 

In  time  the  tinsel  jewel  will  be  wrought. 
Stand  thou  alone,  and  fixed  as  destiny, 

An  imaged  god  that  lifts  above  all  hate; 


Frank  W,  Walters,  England,  219 

Stand  thou  serene  and  satisfied  with  fate ; 
Stand  thou  as  stands  the  lightning-riven  tree, 
That  lords  the  cloven  clouds  of  gray  Yosemite. 

Yea,  lone,  sad  soul,  thy  heights  must  be  thy  home; 

Thou  sweetest  lover!    love  shall  climb  to  thee 
Like  incense  curling  some  cathedral  dome. 

From  many  di;>tant  vales.     Yet  thou  shalt  be, 
O  grand,  sweet  singer,  to  the  end  alone. 

But  murmur  not.     The  moon,  the  mighty  spheres, 

Spin  on  alone  through  all  the  soundless  years; 
Alone  man  comes  on  earth;    he  lives  alone; 
Alone  he  turns  to  front  the  dark,  unknown. 

From   '*  Papers  for  the   Times''— by  Fran':   W.  Walters— y^'ww^rv,  iS8o, 

London,  England. 

At  last,  he  for  whom  we  looked  is  come.  America  has  found  voice.  The 
teeming  life  of  that  wuntierful  New  World  has  ri^en  into  song;  the  infant 
civilization  can  now  boast  a  true-lxjrn  poet  of  its  own.  If  Greece  had  its 
Homer,  if  England  had  its  Chaucer,  so,  now,  America  has  brought  forili  the 
first-born  of,  we  believe,  a  long  line  of  glorious  l)ards  such  as  tiie  worUl  has 
never  seen  before.  To  some,  who  have  only  heard  Walt  Whitman's  name, 
or  only  seen  him  laughed  to  scorn  by  reviewers  who  fail  to  understand  him, 
our  words  will  seem  extravagant.  To  us  who  have  read  and  re-read  his  poems 
with  ever-increased  delight,  it  seems  impossilile  to  express  our  sense  of  their 
power  ami  be.iuty.  Their  power  is  sometimes  overwhelming,  and  to  read 
some  of  them  produces  an  elTect  similar  to  that  of  gazing  upon  a  tempest, 
listening  to  a  hurricane,  or  watching  the  lightning.  Their  beauty  and  pathos 
now  till  the  soul  with  rapturous  joy  in  the  perfection  of  the  world,  and  now 
plunge  one  into  tears  over  the  mysteries  and  sufferings  of  human  life.  These 
poems  are  called  Leaves  of  Grass  ;  and  the  title  is  excellent.  They  arc  one 
with  Nature ;  they  are  not  made,  they  groic/;  they  have  all  the  characteristics 
of  natural  productions.  This  man  wrote  because  the  spirit  moved  him ;  neces- 
sity was  laicl  upon  him ;  his  utterances  pour  forth  from  volcanic  depths  of 
soul.  To  read  them  is  to  come  near  to  him.  I  lis  personality  electrifies  you 
in  every  living  sentence.  He  speaks  to  you,  and  speaks  the  very  things  you 
ha.vefe/1,  but  could  not  put  into  words.  He  interprets  your  soul  to  you.  He 
takes  ycu  by  the  hand  ;  you  feel  the  beating  of  his  pulse.  He  calls  you  his  com- 
rade; he  puts  his  arms  around  you,  takes  you  to  his  breast,  and  you  feel  the 
beating  of  his  heart.  He  invites  you  forth  with  him  to  sound  the  depths  and 
scale  the  heit^dits;  and,  with  your  hand  in  his,  you  go  forth  without  fear,  as 
under  the  pnitection  of  a  strong  elder  brother.  These  poems  are  not  jiart  of 
the  man,  they  are  the  man  himself.  They  are  the  Incarnate  Word  in  which 
he  manifests  the  fulness  of  his  manhood.  Here  is  not  merely  the  poel — here 
is  the  Man,  through  and  through,  from  top  to  toe.  He  gives  to  you  the  un- 
speakable gift  of  himself — not  merely  his  thoughts,  but  himself.  You  not  only 
hear  him,  you  see  him  ;  you  not  only  see  him,  but  you  see  through  him;  you 
not  only  see  through  him,  but  live  in  him  ;  he  jxissesses  you. 

And  because  this  man  has  burst  the  ornamental  chains  of  rhyme  and  metre, 
because  his  /.javes  of  O'rass  do  not  present  a  well-clipped  lawn,  because  his 
wild  flowers  are  not  arranged  into  garden  beds,  because  his  intellectual  growth 
is  wihi  and  rude  as  a  primeval  forest  of  his  own  America — there  are  some  who 
would  (juestiun  his  right  to  the  title  of  poet.     If  Walt  Whitman  is  not  a  ixjct, 


220  Appendix  to  Part  IT. 

all  the  worse  for  poetry.  If  your  definition  of  the  poet  will  not  admit  tliia 
nuin  into  tlic  sacred  circle,  then  your  deliuition  needs  revisin^^  li  these  poems 
do  not  belong  to  what  you  call  art,  then  your  art  is  only  artificial,  it  has  lost 
its  njot  in  those  dejillis  of  Nature  out  of  which  true  art  niu^t  j^row — its  lile  is 
^oiu; ;  cind  in  its  place  a  nobler  art  shall  rise,  and  of  this  new  kingdom  of  the 
beautiful,  Whitman  shall  be  the  earliest  prophet,  though  he  comes  as  a  rude 
voice  frcjm  the  trackless  wilderness,  though  he  is  clothed  in  camel's  liair  and 
leathern  girdle,  and  feeds  his  mighty  vigor  on  locusts  and  wild  honey.  If 
Whitman  be  not  a  poet,  yet  he  has  done  something  more  than  write  poems; 
he  has  shown  us  that  the  world  is  God's  poem.  He  says  he  has  listened  to 
the  Eternal  Voices,  and  they  speak  but  one  harmonious  Truth.  He  has  heard 
the  tramp  of  the  generations  across  the  stage  of  time,  and  all  the  sounds  rise 
into  music.  The  clang  of  labor,  the  clash  of  battle,  the  shouts  of  joy,  the 
groans  of  agony,  the  wailings  of  grief — all  these  are  varying  passages  in  the 
Music  of  Humanity. 

We  cannot  wontler  that  Whitman  lays  tremendous  emphasis  on  the  body. 
Despised  and  counted  unclean  so  long,  it  is  time  that  we  should  proclaim,  with 
unlaltering  lips,  the  divinity  of  the  flesh.  Men  have  been  too  ready  to  take 
at  its  word  the  teaching  of  an  emasculated  pietism.  They  have  said:  "If 
this  Body  is  utterly  and  hopelessly  corrupt,  then  there  is  no  use  attempting  to 
purify  it.  We  will  take  it  at  the  value  you  put  on  it.  Its  natural  functions 
shall  be  regarded  as  shameful ;  its  appetites  and  passions  shall  seek  their  fuUil- 
ment  in  dark  places  of  the  earth."  Now,  with  all  our  heart,  do  we  thank 
Wall  Whitman  for  some  of  the  poems  which  have  been  described  as  shame- 
less gloritications  of  the  Flesh.  Sensuous,  indeed,  they  are,  and  that  with  a 
vengeance;  but  however  they  may  appear  to  others,  to  us  they  are  never 
sensual.  No  lustful  mind  need  come  to  these  severe  pages  thinking  to  gratify 
its  morbid  taste.  We  could  mention  books  counted  sacred,  and  novels 
reckoned  polite,  which  will  answer  the  vile  purpose  admirably — but  not  these 
Leaves  of  Grass.  Whitman's  offence  (for  so  it  is  counted)  is  that  he  will 
sing  the  whole  Man — not  only  Soul,  but  Body  too. 

It  does  seem  to  us  that  this  is  teaching  which  we  sadly  need.  It  is  similar 
to  the  teaching  of  Novalis — "  When  1  lay  my  hand  upon  human  flesh,  I  touch 
God."  It  is  the  same  as  that  fine  doctrine  of  Paul — "  Know  ye  not  that  ye 
are  the  Temjile  of  God,  and  that  the  Spirit  of  God  dwelleth  in  you  ?  If  any 
man  defile  the  Temple  of  God,  him  shall  God  destroy;  lor  the  Temple  of 
God  is  holy,  whose  temple  ye  are."  Whitman  emphasizes  that  Pauline  doc- 
trine. He  says  that  the  Body  is  more  than  the  Temple  of  indwelling  Spirit; 
to  him  the  Body  is  the  LiviNC.  Garmknt  of  the  Soul — Mind  and  Matter  are 
inextricably  bound  up  together — yea  they  are  but  aspects  of  the  one  Manhood. 
If  we  could  impress  this  doctrine  of  the  divinity  of  the  Body  upon  the  young 
men  of  the  present  day,  in  the  next  generation  our  civilization  would  be  regen- 
erateil,  and  a  moral  reformation  would  i)ass  over  our  plague-stricken  society 
with  grander  results  than  all  the  theological  reformations  of  the  past. 

He  teaches  the  democracy  of  the  soul;  he  can  discover  the  divinity  of 
every  human  being.  Democracy,  "  the  puqiort  and  ami  of  all  the  past,"  is 
the  right  of  every  man  to  become  all  that  he  is  capable  of  becoming.  He  will 
not  deny  that  Christ  is  divine,  but  his  affirmation  embraces  every  member  of 
the  race  to  which  Christ  belongs. 

In  regard  to  his  religion  in  the  depe-t  sense  it  may  be  called  the  Religion 
of  Humanity.  He  denies  none  of  the  faiths  of  the  world,  for  all  these  grow 
out  of  the  soul ;  he  accepts  all  Bibles,  for  these  contain  the  great  thoughts  to 
which  the  .Soul  has  given  birth.  On  the  (piestions  of  God  and  Immortality 
he  has  some  sphinx-like  ultcrr.uceb.     lie  refuses  to  argue  about  God,  and  he 


Jamit  to  the  Rocky  Mountains — 1879!  221 

says  he  needs  no  logic  to  prove  his  Immortality.  Tlie  thought  of  the  Infinite, 
the  sense  of  an  EtL-nial  riesunce  giving  progress  nnd  ijcrftction  to  the  world, 
Uiis  to  him  is  God.  He  never  conii)lains.  ThtJiigh  he  has  fathomed  the 
depths  of  sin,  and  borne  a  vicarious  load  of  suffering,  he  yet  declares  that  the 
World  is  perfect,  that  everything  is  iu  its  place,  that  "all  events  hajipen  in  <hie 
order.  In  pasMonate  optimism  he  affnnis  tliat  All  is  'J'rul/i  ,•  that  if  we  could 
sec  far  enough  and  deep  enough,  all  would  appear  very  good,  l-or  the  future 
he  is  at  peace. 

We  think  \vc  have  said  enough  to  prove  that  this  American  singer  brings  us 
a  veritable  Gospel — a  Gospel  v  hich  transhgures  Flesh  into  Spirit,  changes 
mechanical  duty  uito  living  impulse,  and  makes  life  rhythmic  as  the  tides, 
pulsating  as  the  heart,  moving  in  its  orb  like  a  star— a  Gospel  which  reveals 
Time's  full  atonement  for  all  the  sin  and  suffering  of  the  world,  which  takes 
the  darkness  from  mortality,  and  shows  Death  as  a  beauteous  white-robed 
angel— a  (jospel  which  baptizes  our  changeful  existence  into  one  perfect  and 
aljiding  Life,  and  points  for  every  soul  to  the  vast  heritage  of  inunortal 
progress. 

From  the  "  Camden  Post,''  yamiary  yl/i,  iSSo. 

Walt  Whitman  H<imk  Acain.— After  an  absence  since  last  August  Walt 
Whitman  returned  yesterday  to  his  home  in  Camden,  from  a  long  and  varied 
journey  through  the  Central  States  of  the  Union.  His  travel  has  been  mainly 
devoted  to  Colorado,  Kansas  and  Missouri,  but  he  has  made  visits  to  four  or 
five  other  States.  His  objects  of  especial  attention  have  been  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  the  Great  Plains,  and  the  Mississippi  River,  with  their  life,  scenery 
and  idiosyncrasies.  Of  the  West  generally  he  says  not  the  half  has  been  told. 
He  is  in  love  with  Denver  City,  and  speaks  admiringly  of  Missouri  and 
Indiana. 

Going  and  coming,  largely  by  dilTerent  routes  and  with  side  excursions,  Mr. 
Whitman  has  travelled  over  5000  miles.  After  some  pretty  rugged  experiences, 
and  a  ti'dious  fit  of  sickness,  he  returns  to  Camden  in  his  average  health,  an(l 
■with  strength  and  spirits  "good  enough  to  be  mighty  thankful  for,"  as  he  ex- 
presses it. 


From  the  "  Philadelphia  Pf^ss.''  May  26th,  18S0. 

To  the  Editor  ; — Your  report  in  to-day's  paper  of  Colonel  Ingersoll's  Tues- 
day evening's  lecture,  on  "  What  Shall  I  Do  to  be  Saved  ?  "  is  interspersed 
every  second  or  third  paragraph  with  "  Amen  from  Walt  Whitman,"  the  poet's 
name  appearing  in  this  manner  in  the  long  report  and  introduction  some  eight 
or  ten  times.  It  was  at  my  invitation  that  Mr.  Whitman  went  to  the  lecture, 
and  I  sat  at  his  side  throughout  its  delivery.  He  neither  uttered  the  "  Amen  " 
which  the  reporter  puts  so  often  in  his  mouth,  nor  once  made  any  sign  what- 
ever, either  by  voice  or  hand,  of  approval  or  disapproval,  but  maintained  his 
usual  undemonstrative  manner  throughout.  (The  "  Amens"  were  uttered  by 
a  person  immediately  to  the  left  of  Mr.  Whitman;  the  mistake  was  therefore 
a  natural  one.) 

While  I  am  about  it,  would  you  give  me  room  to  correct  "  The  Genesis  of 
Walt  Whitman  "  in  "  Appleton's  Journal  " — not  the  malignance  and  falsehood 
of  the  whole  article,  but  a  small  specimen  brick.  The  "Journal"  speaks  of 
Walt  Whitman  as  habitually  wearing,  while  living  in  New  York,  a  red  flannel 
shirt,  a  blouse  and  a  tarpaulin  hat.     It  doesn't  seem  to  mc  to  matter  if  he  did; 


222  •  Appendix  to  Part  11^ 

but  the  fact  is,  he  never  in  his  life  donned  either  of  these  articles.     Whitman 
always  dressed  about  the  same  as  he  does  now. 

One  migiit  say  that  such  mistai<es  are  not  important,  and  at  all  events  get 
rectified  in  time,  liut  they  don't ;  they  often  make  so-called  history.  Walt 
Whitman  himself  laughs  at  them  as  merely  amusing,  but  they  are  painful  to 
his  friends,  who  are  more  in  number  than  ]ierhai)s  is  generally  suspected,  and 
as  one  of  these  I  write  you  this  letter,  which  1  hope  you  will  have  the  kind- 
ness to  insert.  R.  M.  B. 

From  "  The  Truthseeker^''  September,  iSSo. 

There  are  positively  awful  passages  in  praise  of  even  the  fiercest  bodily 
passions — terrific  shouts  and  cries  lor  absolute  abandonment  to  these.  In 
some  passages,  this  fierce  outcry  is  changed  for  deliberate  descriptions  of 
equally  appalling  coolness;  and  both  are  alike  utterly  amazing  and  unquot- 
able— absolutely  unlike  anything  anywhere  else  in  the  English  language. 
Few  will  be  able  to  picture  a  world  and  a  state  of  society  in  which  all  this 
could  be  anything  Init  wild  and  l)rutal  excess,  to  be  forcil)ly  repressed  or  vig- 
orously struck  at  and  killed.  Alas  !  it  is  this  that  makes  it  iinpossiijle  to  put  his 
complete  writings  into  every  one's  hands.  Taking  the  world  as  it  is,  it  is  all 
wrong;  but  it  is  not  imi)ossible  to  imagine  a  world,  and  a  better  world  too, 
where  it  would  be  all  right.  The  world  as  it  is,  is,  and  has  to  be,  a  world  of 
restraints,  delicacies,  and  reticences,  as  to  the  body  and  the  body's  functions; 
but  in  a  purer  world  there  might  be  absolute  openness,  innocent  unconscious- 
ness of  uncleanness  and  wrong,  and  beautiful  natural  abandonment :  and, 
though  only  the  minority  will  see  this,  we  believe  that  Walt  Whitman  belongs 
far  more  to  that  world  than  to  this,  where  many  of  his  utterances  will  be  de- 
nounced as  dangerous  or  even  detectable :  and  dangerous  perhaps  they  are. 
In  a  tremendous  sense  he  realizes  and  carries  out  the  divine  word, — "  What 
God  hath  cleansed,  that  call  not  thou  unclean:"  only  he  would  say, — "What 
God  hath  created,  that  call  not  thou  unclean."  His  glorification  and  mi- 
nute ]iraise  of  the  human  body,  and  of  every  fibre  and  use  of  it,  is  simply 
overwhelming. 

lie  knows  all  the  significance  of  his  work.  He  says  of  the  way  to  himself, 
"  the  way  is  suspicious, — the  result  uncertain,  perhaps  destructive."  He  docs 
not  beseech  you  to  go  with  him  ;  rather  he  dissuades  you  :  "  Therefore  release 
me  now,"  he  says.  "  Let  go  your  hand  from  my  shi)ulders.  Put  me  down, 
and  depart  on  your  way."  "Nor  will  my  poems  do  good  only,"  he  says; 
"  they  will  do  just  as  much  evil,  perhaps  more."  Why,  then,  does  he  give 
forth  these  poems?  He  would  say, — I  cannot  help  it.  The  free  birds  sing: 
and  I  must  speak — or  die.  His  poems  are  the  outbursting  of  his  strong,  free, 
boundlessly  sensitive  self. 

Mark  well  again,  then, — he  is  the  poet  of  a  fresh,  free,  unbound,  natural, 
new-made  world, — the  poet  of  the  earth  newly-turned-up,  of  the  primeval 
woods  newly  explored,  of  wharves  and  docks  and  busy  towns,  and  the  strong 
flood  of  life  all  new  and  strange — nothing  stale,  flat,  commonplace,  familiar; 
in  a  word,  the  poet  who  is  most  like  a  child-man,  opening  his  wide  wonder- 
ing eyes,  brimming  over  with  joy,  and  feeling  the  mystery  and  beauty  and  de- 
light of  bodily  sensations  in  a  \/orld  of  boundless  animation,  vigor,  and  ever 
fresh  surprise. 

Motto  suggested  by  a  lady  for  this  Volume,  from  Tennyson's  "  Idyls." 

"  Now  I  know  thee,  what  thou  art ; 

Thou  art  the  highest,  and  most  human  too," 


i88i — P7stt  to  the  Long  Island  Birthplace.         223 

From  "The  Long  Islander, ^^  August ^th,  i8St. 

Walt  Whitman  in  Huntington. — After  more  than  forty  years'  absence, 
the  author  of  Lem'es  of  Grass,  and  founder  of  this  paper,  has  been  vi^itiiijj 
our  town  the  past  week  in  company  with  Dr.  R,  M.  Bucke,  of  London,  Can- 
ada, who  is  engaged  in  writing  a  life  of  "the  good  gray  Poet."  Tliey  [  ut 
up  at  the  Huntington  House,  and  spent  several  liays  in  calls  and  explorations 
at  West  Hills,  on  and  around  the  old  Whitman  homestead  and  farm  (now 
owned  and  occupied  by  Philo  R.  Place),  and  also  down  to  the  house  where, 
in  1 819,  Walt  was  born  (the  farm  now  of  Henry  Jarvis),  and  the  adjacent 
parts  of  the  country  for  several  miles.  They  were  especially  interested  in  the 
old  Whitman  burial  hill  and  cemetery,  contaming  the  poet's  ancestors  for 
many  generations,  dating  more  than  two  hundred  years  back,  with  its  rows 
of  ancient  moss  covered  graves.  The  poet  and  Dr.  IJucke  also  went  over  to 
the  Van  Velsor  homestead,  adjacent  to  Cold  Spring,  the  birthplace  of  Mr. 
Whitman's  mother,  Louisa,  daughter  of  Major  Co.  nelius  Van  Velsor.  The 
house,  barn,  and  other  buildings  were  all  gone,  and  the  ground  ploughed  over. 
But  about  a  hundred  rods  off  was  the  old  Van  Velsor  burial  ground,  on  a  hill 
in  the  woods,  and  one  of  the  most  significant  and  picturesque  spots  of  the  kind 
it  is  possible  to  conceive. 

Mr.  Whitman  was  called  upon  during  his  brief  stay  in  Huntington  by 
many  old  and  some  new  friends,  among  others,  the  following :  Charles  Vel- 
sor, of  Cold  Spring;  Benjamin  Doty,  of  same  place;  in  West  Hills,  Lemuel 
Carll,  John  Chichester,  Miss  Jane  Rome,  William  May,  and  Samuel  Scudder; 
in  Huntington,  Henry  Lloyd,  Lawyer  Street,  Albert  Hopper,  Smith  Sammis, 
Thomas  Rogers,  John  Fleet,  Ezra  Prime,  Henry  Sammis,  Thomas  Ailkins, 
Charles  E.  Shepard,  Messrs.  Wood  and  Rusco,  and  Fred  Galow. 

LINN   PORTER  TO  WALT  WHITMAN. 
Hawthorne  Rooms,  £oston,  April  i^th,  i88i, 

I  knew  there  was  an  old,  white-bearded  seer 

Who  dwelt  amid  the  streets  of  Camden  town; 

I  had  the  volumes  which  his  hand  wrote  down — 
The  living  evidence  we  love  to  hear 
Of  one  who  walks  reproachless,  without  fear. 

But  when  I  saw  that  face,  capped  with  its  crown 

Of  snow-white  almond-buds,  his  high  renown 
Faded  to  naught,  and  only  did  appear 

The  calm  old  man,  to  whom  his  verses  tell, 
All  sounds  were  music,  even  as  a  child ; 

And  then  the  sudden  knowledge  on  me  fell, 
For  all  the  hours  his  fancies  had  beguiled, 

No  verse  had  shown  the  Poet  half  so  well 
As  when  he  looked  into  my  face  and  smiled. 

From  the  {Boston)  "Literary  World,"  December ^^d,  1881. 

...  I  was  very  glad  to  read  your  notice  of  Whitman's  stufT.  The  original 
Leaves  of  Grass  is  the  dirtiest  unsuppressed  book  ever  published  in  this 
country,  I  should  judge  that  the  new  edition  has  not  been  purified, —  Con- 
cord,  Mass. 

...  I  want  to  tell  you  also  how  much  I  liked  that  notice  of  Walt  Whit- 
man's Leaves  of  Grass  in  your  last.  It  was  the  right  thing  to  say,  strongly 
and  rightly  said. — Newport,  R.  I. 


224  Appendix  to  Part  II. 

.  .  .  You  may  be  sure  of  the  sympathy  and  thanks  of  most  of  your  readers 
when  you  call  a  spade  a  spade,  and  give  the  riglit  n;inie  to  the  ''.ulecency  of 
Walt  Whitman.  ...  It  is  a  comfort  to  find  a  newspaper,  that  has  a  reputa- 
tion for  intelligence  and  honesty,  willing  to  speak  th';  plain  truth.  You  did 
the  same  thing  some  months  since  of  a  book  of  Heine's.  ...  1  hope  you  will 
continue  to  remind  your  readers  that  no  brilliancy  of  intellect  can  atone  for  a 
want  of  common  decency. — I'hiiadelphia, 

From  the  "  Boston  Herald;''  April  iSth,  iSSr. 

Walt  Whitman  is  now  on  his  second  visit  to  Boston.  He  came  quietly,  but 
he  finds  himself  the  subject  of  an  ovation  given  with  such  hearty  cordialness 
as  to  prove  with  what  a  real  affection  he  has  come  to  be  regarded.  At  about 
the  time  when  the  St.  Botolph  Club  was  organized,  a  few  of  the  young  fel- 
lows happening  to  speak  of  Lincoln,  it  was  suggested  by  one  of  them  that 
they  ought  to  have  Walt  Whitman  here  to  read  his  commemoration  essay  on 
the  great  President,  a  service  that  he  reverently  performs  every  year  on  the 
anniversary  of  Lincoln's  death.  The  idea  took  root  at  once,  and  the  arrange- 
ments were  made  that  have  resulted  in  the  present  occasion.  It  was  a  pleas- 
ant sight  at  the  Hawthorne  Rooms  on  Friday  evening;  the  fine  audience  rep- 
resenting the  best  side  of  Boston  literary  activity,  and  the  poet,  with  venerable 
hair  and  beard,  but  sturdy  presence,  reading  his  fine  essay  with  the  native  elo- 
quence born  c  sincere  feeling — ^just  as  if  reading  to  a  few  personal  friends — 
but  with  none  of  the  tricks  of  the  elocutionizing  trade. 

He  has  been  welcomed  to  Boston  with  open  arms.  Old  and  young,  old 
friends  and  new,  have  gathered  around  him.  The  young  men  have  taken  to 
him  as  one  with  themselves,  as  one  of  those  fresh  natures  that  are  ever  youth- 
ful ;  the  older  ones,  many  of  whom  might  once  have  been  disposed  to  regard 
him  with  disfavor,  now  have  grown  to  see  the  real  core  of  the  man  in  its 
soundness  and  sweetness,  and  are  equally  hearty  in  their  welcome.  "  He  is 
a  grand  old  fellow  "  is  everybody's  verdict.  Walt  Whitman  has  in  times  past 
been,  perhaps,  more  ignorantly  than  wilfully  misunderstood,  but  time  brings 
about  its  revenges,  and  his  present  positior  goes  to  prove  that,  let  a  man  be 
true  to  himself,  however  he  defies  the  world,  the  world  will  come  to  respect 
him  for  his  loyalty.  Perhaps  frankness  may  be  said  to  be  the  keynote  of  Walt 
Whitman's  nature.  He  glows  with  responsive  cordiality.  He  is  not  afraid 
to  be  himself,  and  he  asserts  it  with  ideal  American  unconventionality, — that 
is,  he  is  thoroughly  individual  in  his  personal  ways  and  expressions,  and  all 
without  offence  to  the  individualism  of  others.  He  looks  it  in  his  strong  fea- 
tures, full  of  the  repose  of  force  in  reserve;  his  clear,  friendly  blue  eyes,  ihe 
open  windows  of  a  healthy  brain  ;  the  pleasant,  sympathetic  \oice  ;  the  easy 
suit  of  pleasant  gray,  and  the  open  shirt  with  rolling  cf)llar;  the  broad,  black 
felt  hat  contrasting  with  his  white  hair.  All  exjjress  the  large-hearted,  large- 
minded  man.  His  ruddy  face  and  powerful  frame  indicate  good  health,  and 
it  is  only  when  he  rises  that  one  sees  in  his  slew  walk  the  invalid  that  he  now 
is, — "  a  half-paralytic,"  he  calls  himself.  He  is  hearty  in  speaking  of  his  con- 
temporaries, and  he  thinks  America  is  to  be  esteernt  i  fortunate  in  having  felt 
the  influence  of  four  such  clean,  pure  and  healthful  natures  as  Emerson.  Bryant, 
Whittier,  and  Longfellow.  As  his  frank  comments  on  others  arc  without  re- 
serve, so  his  free  talk  of  himself  is  without  egotism,  as  can  well  be  the  case 
with  a  man  of  such  large  |HTsonality, 

When  in  Washington,  he  was  astonished  to  receive  a  letter  from  Tennyson, 
wonderfully  cordial  and  hearty,  inviting  him  to  come  to  see  him  in  England, 
and  full  of  friendly  interest.     It  was  not  so  much  about  his  book  as  it  was  a 


"  Whcfiever  the  iph  of  April  comes**  225 

personal  tribute,  which  seemed  the  more  amazing  coming  from  Tennyson, 
wlio  never  goes  out  of  his  way,  even  for  kin^s.  This  was  the  beginning 
of  a  group  of  devoted  admirers  in  England,  an(l,  until  recently,  the  poet  has 
received  the  most  of  his  support  from  the  British  isles,  where  he  has  sold  the 
greater  number  of  his  books. 

One  of  the  late-t  articles  on  Walt  Whitman  was  that  of  Sledman's  in  a 
recent  number  of  "  Scribner's."  It  is  an  appreciative  and  fme  feeling  paper, 
full  of  friendly  recognition.  In  parts,  however,  it  seems  as  if  he  failed  to 
grasp  the  true  signiticuice  of  his  subject.  He  makes,  for  instance,  a  most 
mistaken  comparison  between  Whitman  and  William  Blake.  Wliitman,  in 
fact,  had  probably  never  heard  of  William  Blake  until  Stt'dn.an's  article  ap- 
peared. And  it  seems  difficult,  indeed,  to  find  any  similarity  between  the 
grand  healthiness  of  Whitman  and  the  morbid,  diseased  thoughts  of  the  half- 
crazy  Englishman.  Regarding  Stedman's  characterization  of  certain  pas- 
sages in  Whitman's  poems  as  false  to  art,  since  Nature  was  not  to  be  ^een  in 
Iier  nakedness,  for  she  always  took  care  to  cover  Uj)  her  naked  places  with 
vegetation,  a  great  poet  said  to  the  writer  that  there  were  times  when  Nature 
was  to  be  seen  when  she  was  in  all  her  nakedness,  anfl  that  it  was  proper  that 
she  should  thus  be  seen  ;  a  great  artist  could  so  present  her,  and  thereby  there 
would  be  no  violation  of  the  laws  of  art.  Concerning  these  passages,  Walt 
Whitman  says  that,  after  much  thinking  it  over,  he  feels  that  he  was  right  in 
writing  them,  and  tliat  he  would  not  have  them  otherwise.  There  is  some- 
thing way  back  of  logic,  back  of  reason,  that  prompts  us,  and  this  feeling 
tells  him  that  he  was  right. 

/;-()/;/  fhf  riiiladelphia  "Progress,"  April  joth,  iSSi. 

Wai.t  Whitman's  late  LF.cTirRE  in  Boston. — There  is  a  mixture  of 
jicnsiveness,  fitness,  and  of  his  own  individuality — perhaps  obstinacy — in 
Walt  Whitman's  determination  to  keep  in  his  own  way  every  recurrence  of 
the  anniversary  of  I'resident  Lincoln's  death.  "Oft  as  the  rolling  years  bring 
back  this  hour,"  he  said  in  his  discourse  last  week  in  Boston,  "  let  it  again, 
however  briefly,  b;  dwelt  upon;  for  iny  own  part,  I  hojie  and  intend,  till  my 
own  dying  day,  whenever  the  14th  or  1 3th  of  April  comes,  to  annual'.y  gather 
,a  fesv  friends,  and  hold  its  tragic  reminiscence." 

Twice  before  has  he  read  his  notes  on  this  theme;  once,  in  1879,  in  New 
York  city,  and  in  1880  in  I'hiladel|)hia.  This  time  it  was  in  Boston,  where 
he  had  been  invited  l>y  the  yov.ng  journalists,  artists,  and  by  the  St.  Botolph 
Club,  'i'he  old  "  Evening  Traveller"  of  next  day,  April  16th,  1881,  in  an 
editorial  leatier  thus  describes  the  speaker  and  the  speech  : 

"  There  was  a  theme  for  poet  or  painter  in  the  scene  at  the  I  lawthorne  R<K)ms 
last  evening,  when  Walt  Wliitman  read  to  a  fascinated  group  of  auditors  his 
reflections  upon  the  death  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  As  he  entered,  unattended 
and  unannounced,  and  made  his  way  painfully  along  the  narrow  ai.-.le,  sup- 
)iorted  by  his  stout  stick,  to  the  desk  behind  which  looked  out  the  face  of  the 
martyr  President,  and  sitting  in  the  broad  oaken  armchair,  his  clear,  resonant 
voice  fillin,'  every  part  of  the  room,  the  venerable  prophet  of  Democracy  pre- 
sented a  picturesque  figure.  He  was  clad  in  his  customary  suit  of  light  gray, 
his  fresh  and  striking  countenance  set  otT  by  waves  of  snow-white  hair  and 
beard,  the  '  copious  blanchness'  of  his  linen  adding  yet  another  clement  to  the 
chaste  simplicity  of  his  attire;  while  in  the  audience  before  him  were  many 
eminent  in  art  and  let'ers,  who  had  come  to  pay  homage  to  one  who  is  already 
fist  being  regai ded  as  the  typical  citizen  of  the  republic.  There  was  some- 
thing of  poetic  justice,  too,  in  thinking  of  the  reception  of  this  man  who  had 


226  Appejidix  to  Part  II. 

been  scorned  as  a  barbarian  rhymester,  whose  burning  lines,  surcharged  with 
the  future,  hail  long  fallen  unheeded  upon  the  indiffen  nt  ears  of  his  country- 
men, and  whose  very  presence  was  now  felt  almost  as  a  benediction. 

"  The  scenes  in  that  mighty  drama  which  those  j)resent  were  gathered  to 
commemorate  were  painted  by  Whitman  in  a  series  of  bold,  masterly  strokes. 
'Ihe  great  incidents  leading  up  to  the  culminating  tragedy  were  swiftly  enu- 
merated ;  then  the  scenes  of  that  wild  and  eventful  April  night,  in  clear-cut, 
well-chosen  words,  every  epithet  bearing  its  weight  of  meaning;  and  then  the 
speaker  went  on  in  projihetic  strains  to  foretell  the  significance  of  this  great 
event,  and  its  induence  upon  the  art,  history,  and  literature  of  the  nation. 
The  lecture  closed  with  the  recitation  by  the  author  of  his  grandly  pathetic 
lament,  ♦  ()  Captain,  my  Captain,'  the  lines  gaining  new  grandeur  and  pathos 
as  they  came  from  his  lips. 

"  It  was  a  scene  which  those  present  will  long  remember  as  pregnant  with 
meaning  to  their  whole  after  lives." 

From  the  "Boston  Globe"  August  24th,  1881. 

Tn  a  small  inner  room  connected  with  the  printing  establishment  of  Rand, 
Avery  iv:  Co.,  Walt  Whitman,  the  poet,  was  reailing  by  a  table  yesterday. 
Near  by  was  a  jiile  of  corrected  proof-sheets  bearing  the  heading  Leaves  of 
Grass.  His  ruddy  features  were  almost  concealed  by  his  white  hair  and 
beard.  When  he  laid  down  his  book  on  the  intruiion  of  the  writer,  his  eye, 
still  bright  and  keen,  glowed  with  a  genuine  good  nature.  No,  he  had  no 
ol>jections  to  entering  into  a  conversation  which  should  be  given  to  the  public, 
provided  there  was  any  interest  in  what  he  might  say.  He  was  here,  he  said, 
to  look  over  the  proofs  of  his  new  Leaves  of  Grass,  which  James  R.  Osgood 
&  Co.  are  to  issue. 

"  It  is  a  long  time,"  remarked  the  reporter,  "  since  the  book  by  that  name 
was  lirst  given  to  the  world."  •' Ves,"  replied  the  poet,  leaning  back  com- 
fortably in  his  chair,  and  looking  reflectively  across  the  table  at  the  writer, 
who  had  seated  himself  opposite,  "it  is  now,  I  believe,  twenty-six  years  since 
I  began  to  work  upon  the  structure;  and  this  edition  will  complete  the  design 
which  I  had  in  my  mind  when  I  began  to  write.  The  whole  affair  is  like  one 
of  those  old  architectural  edifices,  some  of  which  were  hundreds  of  years 
building,  and  the  designer  of  which  has  the  whole  idea  in  his  mind  from  the 
first.  His  plans  are  pretty  ambitious,  and,  as  means  or  time  permits,  he  adds 
jiart  after  part,  perhaps  at  (juite  wide  intervals.  To  a  casual  observer  it  looks 
in  the  course  of  its  construction  odd  enough.  Only  after  the  whole  is  com- 
])lcted,  (me  catches  the  idea  which  inspired  the  designer,  in  whose  mind  the 
relation  of  each  part  to  the  whole  hail  existed  all  along.  That  is  the  way  it 
has  been  with  my  book.  It  has  been  twei.ty-six  years  building.  There  have 
been  seven  different  hitches  at  it.  Seven  different  times  have  parts  of  the 
edifice  been  constructed, — sometimes  in  Brooklyn,  sometimes  in  Washington, 
sometimes  in  Hoston,  and  at  other  jilaces.  The  boi-k  has  l)een  built  partially 
in  every  part  of  the  I'niied  States;  an<l  this  edition  is  the  c<mipleted  edifice. 

'•  Then  I  <lo  not  know  whether  it  will  appear  to  the  casual  reader,  but  to 
myself  my  whole  book  turns  on  the  Secessirm  War,  I  desired  to  make  it  the 
poem  of  the  War — not  in  a  way  in  which  the  old  war  poems,  such  as  the 
•  Iliad,'  were  war  poems,  but  in  entirely  a  now  way.  This  came  to  me  after 
the  second  part  was  composed,  and  has  readily  fused  in  with  the  other  parts 
of  my  plan,  and  even  dominated  them." 


"  Time  Figures  for  Posterity.'^  227 

From  the  Sprins^eld  (Jlfass.)  "Republican^''  N'o^'ember  loth,  iSSi. 

It  was  a  great  age,  men  will  say  hereafter,  anil  a  grand  country,  that  could 
produce  in  one  generation  three  figures  for  posterity  to  gaze  on,  like  John 
IJrown,  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  Walt  Whitman — men  unlike  each  other  and 
unlike  all  others,  such  as  no  other  land  produced  or  could  jjroduce  ;  embodied 
heroism,  embodied  sense  and  sensibility,  embodied  imagination.  So  I 
view  the  three  men,  in  the  mass  of  their  character — not  considering  the  loose 
and  trivial  details  which  to  many  eyes  have  seemed  to  be  the  whole  character. 
It  it  were  possible  to  see  the  genius  of  a  great  people  throwing  itself  now  into 
this  form,  now  into  that — as  the  prairie  wlieatlield  takes  the  cpiiek  shape  of 
the  passing  wind — it  would  be  just  to  say  that  we  had  seen  this  mystery  in 
the  "  plain  heroic  magnitude  of  mind  "  with  which  I'.rown  met  death, — in  the 
broad  and  patient  wisdom  of  Lincoln, — and  in  the  immense  landscape  of 
Whitman's  teeming  imagination.  His  ZiVi7r5  (i/ 6';v?jj,  as  he  has  now  pub- 
lished them,  complete  the  vast  jiicture  of  his  mind, and  bring  out  not  merely 
the  confusion  of  details,  which  we  could  only  see  at  first  by  the  light  of 
poetic  (lashes — but  the  broad  unity  of  the  piece.  It  is  as  if  the  ancient  sea- 
men had  found  their  ocean-gotl  slumbering  along  his  shores,  and  upon  near 
view  could  only  set.  a  hand  here,  an  eyebrow  there,  a  floating  mass  of  beard 
elsewhere — but  when  they  stood  back  from  the  strand,  or  best  if  they  climbed 
a  hill  of  prospect,  tlie  symmetry  and  articulati  ..i  of  the  mighty  frame  plainly 
appeared,  and  they  knew  by  sight  their  unconscious  divinity,  Neptune. 

There  is  in  Whitman's  verse,  more  than  in  any  other  modern  j)oet's,  what 
Keats  called  "that  large  utterance  of  the  early  gods" — an  indistinct  grandeur 
of  expression  not  yet  moulded  to  the  melody  of  Shakes|)eare,  Lucretius,  and 
/Lschylus,  but  like  what  Keats  again  calls  "the  overwhelming  voice  of  huge 
Knceladus." 

It  is  when  he  speaks  of  Lincoln  and  the  Civil  War  that  Whitman  is  least 
indistinct.  And  no  other  of  our  poets — no,  nor  all  of  them  together — has 
so  well  caught  and  rendered  the  spirit  of  that  struggle  as  he  has  done  it. 

Front  the  "Nnv  York  Tribune^''  A^ovevtber  i()th,  iSSi. 
After  the  dilettante  indelicacies  of  William  11.  Mallock  and  Oscar  Wilde, 
we  are  presented  with  the  slop-bucket  of  Walt  Whitman.  The  celebrity  of 
this  phenomenal  poet  bears  a  curious  disproportion  to  the  circulation  of  his 
writings.  Until  now,  it  cannot  be  said  that  his  verses  have  ever  been  published 
at  all.  They  have  been  printed  irregularly  and  read  behind  the  door.  They 
have  been  vaunted  extravagantly  by  a  band  of  extravagant  disciples;  and  the 
possessors  of  the  books  have  kept  them  locked  up  from  the  family.  Some  have 
valued  them  for  the  barbaric  "  yawp,  "  which  seems  to  them  ihe  note  of  a  new, 
vigorous,  democratic,  American  school  of  literature;  some  for  the  fragments 
of  real  poetry  floating  in  the  turbid  mass;  some  for  the  naslincss  and  animal 
insensibility  to  shame  which  entitle  a  great  many  of  the  jjoenis  to  a  dubious 
rejiutation  as  curiosities.  Now  that  they  are  thrust  into  our  faces  at  the  book- 
stalls there  must  be  a  re-examination  of  the  myth  of  the  dood  Clray  I'oet.  It 
seems  to  us  that  there  is  no  need  at  this  late  day  to  Consider  Mr.  Whitman's 
claims  to  the  immortality  of  genius.  That  he  is  a  poet  most  of  us  frankly 
admit.  His  merits  have  ben  set  forth  many  times,  and  at  great  length,  and 
if  the  world  has  erred  materially  in  its  judgment  of  thorn  the  crrir  hiis  been 
a  la^'y  and  uiKpiestioning  aciiuiesceiice  in  some  of  the  extreme  demands  of  his 
vocilerous  jurtisans.  The  chief  (luestion  raised  by  this  publication  is  whe- 
ther anybody — even  n  poet — ought  to  take  off  his  trousers  in  the  markef-jil.Tce. 
Of  late  years  we  believe  that  Mr.  Whitman  has  not  chosen  to  be  so  shocking 


228  Appendix  to  Part  II. 

as  he  was  when  he  had  liis  notoriety  to  make,  and  many  of  his  admirers — the 
rational  ones — lioped  that  the  Leaves  of  Grass  would  be  weeded  before  he  set 
them  out  aj^ain.  but  this  has  not  been  done  :  and  inileed  Mr.  Whitman  eould 
hardly  do  it  without  falsifying  the  fir^t  principle  of  his  phihjsophy,  which  is  a 
belief  in  his  own  perfection,  and  the  second  principle,  whicli  is  a  belief  in 
the  preciousness  of  fdth.  "  iJivine  am  I,"  he  cries,  "Divine  am  I  inside 
and  out,  and  I  make  holy  whatever  I  touch  or  am  touched  -om.  The  scent  of 
tliese  armpits  aroma  liner  than  prayer.  This  head  more  th  ;  churches,  Uibles, 
and  all  the  creeds."  He  knows  that  he  is  "august."  l.e  does  not  care  for 
anybody's  opinion.     He  is 

Walt  Whilrn.m,  a  kostnos,  of   Manb.nttan  the  son, 

'I'urbiileiU,  Hesliy,  sensual,  eating,  drinking,  and  t)rce(linK, 

N')  sciitiniL-ntali^t,  no  stanilcr  al).)vc  men  anil  women  ur  apart  from  them, 

No  mjrc  m  .dust  than  immodest. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  universe  better  than  Walt  Whitman.     That  is  the 

burden  of   the    "Song  of    Myself,"  wiiich    tills   fifty   pages  of    the    present 

volume : 

I  dote  on  myself,  there  is  that  lot  of  me,  and  ail  so  luscious. 

Nothing  is  obscene  or  indecent  to  him.  It  is  his  mission  to  shout  the  for- 
bidden voices,  to  tear  the  veil  olT  everything,  to  clarify  and  transfigure  all  that 
is  dirty  and  vile,  to  |iroclaini  that  garbage  is  just  as  good  as  nectar  if  you  are 
only  lusty  enough  to  think  so.  His  immodesty  is  free  fnmi  glamour  of  every 
sort.  Neither  amatory  sentiment  nor  susceptibility  to  physical  beauty  appears 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  It  is  entirely  bestial ;  and  in  this  res|)ect  we 
know  nolhnig  in  literature  which  c;in  i)e  cmnpared  with  it.  Walt  Whitman, 
desjiising  what  he  calls  conventionalism,  ami  vaunting  the  athletic  democracy, 
asks  to  be  accepted  as  the  master  of  a  new  poetical  school,  fresh,  free,  stal- 
wart, "  immense  in  passion,  iiuise,  and  power,"  the  emlx.diinent  of  the  sjjirit 
of  vigorous  .America.  !>ut  the  gross  materialism  of  his  verses  represents  art 
in  its  last  degradation  rather  than  its  rude  infancy. 

I'rotit  the  ^^Bosfon  Transeri/'t." 
Now  when  every  legitimate  leaf  of  grass  is  looking  its  freshest  and  green- 
est, the  sun  of  adversity  seems  to  have  wilted — permanently,  let  us  hojie — 
those  "leaves"  which  twenty-live  years  ago  s|)routed  fiom  our  literary  soil 
un<kr  the  auspices  of  Walt  Whitman.  The  attorney-general  of  the  Common- 
wealth notitletl  the  pul)lishers  of  Leaves  of  Grass  \.ha.\.  certain  changes  must  be 
made  in  the  contents  of  the  book,  or  its  sale  must  cease.  The  publishers 
manifest  ])erfect  \\  illingness  to  accede  to  the  demand,  but  the  author  stubbornly 
refuses  to  omit  a  word  or  change  a  line.  A  great  many  ]>eople  who  know 
nothing  al)out  the  book  will  wonder  at  Whitman's  refusal  to  re-edit  it,  but  to 
tell  the  honest,  shameful  truth,  the  very  portions  objected  to  are  all  that  have 
made  the  book  sell.  It  is  now  nearly  thirty  years  since  Whitman  uttered  his 
literary  "yawp."  It  was  at  a  ]hh  uliar  period  in  American  literature.  None 
of  our  great  poets  hail  then  develojied  their  full  strength.  There  was  a  lack 
of  that  brawny,  unconventional  vigor  in  American  jxjctry  which  the  popular 
mind  yearned  for,  and  which  was  felt  by  right  to  belong  to  it.  The  very 
audacity  and  lawlessness  of  J. eaves  of  Grass  did  for  the  moment  what  no 
amount  of  merit  could  have  done,  and  many  enthusiastic  critics  saw  in  it 
promises  of  the  coming  man.  In  England  the  volume  was  received  as  a 
work  of  special  ins|iiration  by  the  pre  Raphaelitcs,  and  an  edition  was 
brought  out  by  Rossetti  in  lS68.  An  Irish  critic  demandeil  for  the  author  a 
place  by  the  side  of  .Eschylus,  Homer,  Dante,  and  Shakespeare,  intimating 
that  he  wouhl  not  suffer  by  comparison  with  any  one  of  the  four. 


A   Comment  on  the  Suppression.  229 

From  the  Springfield  {Mass.)  '' Rcpuhluan,"  May  3jd,  /SSj. 
Lkxtkr  from  R.  M.  Hucke. 

I  desire  briefly  to  call  your  attention  to  the  fact  that  in  this  country,  which 
boasts  of  its  liberty,  and  especially  of  its  free  press,  the  puijlicatiun  of  i)er- 
haps  the  best  book  which  has  so  far  been  produced  in  it  has  been  stopj)ed  l)y 
legal  interference.  I  allude  to  the  interdiction  of  the  issue  of  Leaves  of  Grass 
by  a  notice  served  upon  James  R.  Osgood  <&  Co.,  its  publishers,  by  District 
Attorney  Oliver  Stevens  in  March  las! ;  which  notice  was  to  the  effect  that 
unless  the  issue  of  the  book  at  once  ceased  the  firm  would  be  pnjsecuted  "  in 
j)Uisuance  of  the  public  statutes  respecting  obscene  literature." 

It  is  not  easy  for  nie,  who  for  the  last  sixteen  years  have  made  this  book  a 
constant  companion,  and  have  received  (as  have  so  many  others)  unspeakable 
benefit  from  it,  to  spt-ak  of  this  action  in  terms  of  moderation  ;  but  I  .>hall, 
nevertheless,  try  to  do  so.  It  seems,  then,  that  this  is  the  outcome  of  the 
boasted  freedom  of  America  toward  the  entl  of  the  nineteenth  century,  that 
the  publicatiim  of  a  book,  the  most  honest,  pure,  religious  and  moral,  of  this 
or  of  almost  any  other  age,  can  i)e  stopped,  and  is  stopped  by  tlie  law.  That 
this  could  happen  would  be  bad  enough  if  the  book  were,  for  instance,  com- 
parable to  Byron's  "Don  Juan,"  Sterne's  " '^^i^tram  Shandy,"  Helding's 
•'Tom  Jones,"  or  hundreds  of  other  really  great  books  of  the  same  kind, 
which,  though  shunned  by  jirudes,  are  the  joy  and  delight  of  all  the  rest  of 
the  world.  If  it  were  a  book  in  which  sensual  jjleasures  were  pictured  and 
praised  for  their  own  sake,  or  in  which  some  of  the  fundamental  i)rinciples  of 
morality  were  attacked,  it  would  still  lie  wrong,  inexpedient,  and  contrary  to  the 
spirit  of  this  age  and  country  to  suppress  it  by  legal  interference;  for  the 
Americans  of  this  generation  are,  I  take  it,  grown  up  men  and  women,  and 
require  no  district  attorney  or  other  official  to  instruct  them  as  to  what  books 
are,  and  what  not,  proper  to  be  read,  but  are  perfectly  able  to  decide  (each 
one  of  them)  such  matters  for  themselves. 

Hut  Leases  of  Crass  does  not  stand  in  the  same  category  with  cither  the 
books  mentioned  o-  those  alluded  tt),  nor  does  it  advocate  acts  or  practices 
which  are  considered  by  any  sane  person  to  be  immoral  or  wrong;  the  whole 
crime  of  its  author  is  that  lie  believes  in  the  grandeur  and  gootlness  of  hu- 
manity in  all  its  parts  anil  relations;  that  he,  being  himself  juire,  sees  that 
man  is  so  in  his  essential  nature,  in  spite  of  any  and  all  ajipearances  to  the 
contrary;  that  ali  his  parts  and  all  his  lunctions  arc  well  made  and  divinely 
appointed  ;  that  man,  in  fact,  is  the  work  of  a  wise  and  good  (iod — not  his 
head  and  hands,  his  eyesight  and  intellect  merely,  but  also  all  the  rest  of  his 
body  and  his  instincts,  including  the  sexual  jiassion,  and  the  organs  and  the 
acts  by  and  through  which  this  passion  (for  the  greatest  of  all  ends)  seeks  and 
fmds  its  gratification: 

The  very  head  and  fnmt  of  (his)  oflTending 
Hath  (his  extent,  no  mure. 

lie  simply,  like  Milton,  "asserts  (universal)  providence,  and  //«//)?^j  the 
irays  of  God  to  tiuDi,'^  his  crime  being  that,  as  he  has  absolute,  not  partial 
faith,  so  he  justifies  a/i  (lod's  ways,  not  a  selected  few  of  tliem. 

If  even,  his  intention  being  pure,  he  had  so  failed  in  the  carrying  of  it  out 
that  while  aiming  to  strengthen  virtue  the  book  unawares  stimulated  vice,  it 
would  then  undoubtedly  be  a  proper  subject  for  hostile  criticism,  but  not  for  the 
interference  of  the  law,  which  in  such  a  case  could  only  be  appealed  to  by  per- 
son;; who  felt  that  the  ends  they  sought  could  not  be  attained  by  reason.  But  it 
has  not  been  and  cannot  be  shown  that  the  uook  is  of  the  character  supposed, 


230  Appendix  to  Part  II. 

for  it  was  not  only  intended  to  contain,  but  it  does  contain,  no  page,  line,  or 
word  calculated  to  arouse  or  cajiable  of  arousing  any  improper  or  immoral  emo- 
tion whatever,  but,  on  the  contrary,  its  invariable  tendency  is  toward  purity  in 
thought,  word,  and  deed.  Wall  Whitman  says,  and  rightly,  that,  •'  If  anything 
is  sacred  the  human  body  is  sacred  "  (not  part  of  the  body,  mind,  but  all  of  it), 
and  as  a  logical  deduction  from  that  proposition  (which  even  Oliver  Stevens 
will  hardly  deny)  he  continues : 

0  my  body  !     I  dare  not  desert  the  likes  of  you  in  other  men  and  women,  nor  the  likes  of  the 

parts  of  you. 

1  believe  the  likes  of  you  are  to  stand  and  fall  with  the  likes  of  the  soul  (and  that  they  are 

the  soul). 

He  therefore  goes  on  to  praise  in  detail  all  the  various  parts,  organs,  and 
functions  of  the  body,  and  this  is  done  in  an  absolutely  chaste  manner.  There 
is  no  make-believe  about  all  this  on  the  part  of  the  poet;  all  parts  of  the  body 
are  praiseworthy  and  admirable  to  him  (as  they  ought  to  be  to  us  all,  for  they 
are  so  in  reality),  and  Leaves  of  Gra^s,  properly  read,  is  to  make  us  see  the  uni- 
verse in  all  its  parts,  including  man,  as  he  sees  it,  and  feel  toward  it  as  he  feels 
toward  it,  i.  e.,  to  see  and  feel  that  the  world  and  humanity  are  not  half  God's 
work  and  half  the  devil's,  but  that  they  are  all  God's  work,  and  all  perfect ;  that 
"  not  an  inch  or  a  particle  of  an  inch  is  vile." 

If  so  to  feel  toward  and  so  to  treat  the  earth  and  its  inhabitants  is  a  crime 
deserving  the  interference  of  the  law,  then  (I  say  it  in  all  reverence)  the 
teaching  of  Christ  was  immoral,  and  the  Pharisees  had  the  best  of  the  argu- 
ment, for  this  was  the  basis  of  all  his  teaching:  "  These  people  and  these 
things  that  you  Pharisees  think  vile  are  not  so  in  fact — these  publicans,  these 
prostitutes  are  the  children  of  God ;  these  acts  that  seem  to  you  to  need  con- 
demnation and  punishment,  need  instead  pity  and  forgiveness;  these  things 
that  seem  to  you  trivial  and  worthless  have  an  eternal  and  sublime  signifi- 
cance, if  you  could  only  see  it."  flas  the  world  learned  the  lesson?  Ought 
it  no  longer  to  be  insisted  upon  ?  Are  we  all  (now  at  last)  good  enough,  wise 
enough  ?  Do  we  all  fully  realize  the  whole  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the  world 
and  of  man?  Are  our  feelings  towards  these  always  and  under  ail  circum- 
stances what  they  should  be?  Are  they  ever  what  they  should  be ?  If  man 
is  already  perfect,  of  course  he  wants  no  more  teachers,  so  let  us  suppress  all 
books  (and  all  men  too)  that  are  above  our  own  level;  or,  it  being  admitted 
that  man  is  not  quite  perfect,  shall  we  say  that  he  is  not  capable  of  ever  being 
nearer  so  than  he  is  at  present,  and  that  therefore  all  teaching  intended  to 
elevate  him  is  useless?  If  this  is  the  case  then  certainly  books  like  Leaves 
of  Grass  have  no  value.  However,  the  point  to  be  kept  in  view  at  present  is 
not  so  much  the  value  or  no  value  of  this  despised  and  interdicted  book,  but 
the  question  whet'  er  any  honestly  written  book  may,  simply  because  of  the 
mention  in  it  of  things  not  usually  talked  about,  be  suppressed  by  any  man 
who,  perhaps  not  understanding  it,  hapi)ens  not  to  like  it.  It  is  no  use  to  seek 
to  justify  the  suppression  by  saying  that  it  was  effected  by  means  of  and  in 
accordance  with  law,  for  the  worst  crimes  ever  committed,  the  burning  of 
witches,  the  butcheries  of  Jeffries,  the  execution  of  early  Christians  by  pagans, 
and  of  later  Christians  by  one  another  for  religious  error,  yes,  even  the  Cruc- 
fixion  itself,  were  all  legal.  The  question  is  not  whether  Oliver  Stevens's 
act  is  legal,  but  whether  it  is  right.  The  suppression  (even  for  the  moment) 
of  Leaves  of  Grass  is  a  serious  matter  from  several  points  of  view,  but  the 
general  question  involved  in  the  act  is  far  more  serious.  But  upon  this  point 
Oliver  Stevens  has  now  expressed  his  opinion  :  it  remains  to  be  seen  what  the 
American  people  will  think  of  it. 


George  Chaineys  Chicago  Lecture,  231 

From  the  "  Bos/on  Herald^'  May  28th,  1SS2. 

Suppressing;  Walt  Whitman's  poems  is  like  putting  the  Venus  of  Milo  in 
petticuats.  A  few  years  ago  a  dealer  in  New  Bedford  was  prosecutsd  for  ex- 
posing a  copy  of  the  statuette  of  Narcissus  in  his  window.  This  is  prurient 
prudery.  We  expect  it  in  untravelled  country  people,  hut  city  lawyers  ought 
10  know  better.  We  presume  it  is  not  Dist. -Attorney  Stevens,  or  Atty.-Gen. 
Marston,  to  whom  the  credit  of  this  small  bigotry  belongs,  but  Anthony  Com- 
slock,  the  narrow  apo^tle  of  drapery.  If  Walt  Whitman's  i)oems  are  obscene, 
what  shall  be  said  for  Shakespeare,  Montaigne,  Swedenborg,  and  the  Hible? 
On  what  principle  can  "the  good  gray  poet"  be  contlemned,  and  these  ex- 
alted ?  It  is  reported  that  Anthony  Comstock  has  promised  not  to  prosecute 
the  classics  "  unless  they  are  specially  advertised.''  Such  a  glimpse  of  bigotry 
is  enough  to  make  one  shudder.  We  regret  that  such  facile  legal  tools  were 
found  in  Massachusetts,  and  that  the  publishers  did  not  have  the  courage  to 
stand  a  prosecution  for  the  sake  of  truth  and  art,  and  truth  in  art. 

From  the  "  Chicago  Herald,"  October  i6th,  1SS2. 

Mr.  George  Chainey,  of  Boston,  delivered  a  lecture  last  evening  in  Hershey 
Hall  upon  VValt  Whitman's  suppressed  book,  Leaves  of  Crass.  The  audience 
was  small  and  very  appreciative.  Mr.  Chainey  is  a  tall,  round-shouldered, 
smooth-faced  gentleman,  with  flowing  black  hair,  very  large  dark  eyes, 
and  a  strong  tendency  toward  epigrammatic  and  poetic  expression.  He  ap- 
pears to  be  about  forty  years  old.  He  said  that  Wait  Whitman  is  pre-eminently 
the  poet  of  to-day.  Perhaps  he  might  more  justly  be  called  the  poet  of  the  future. 
No  poet  of  our  time  has  been  so  coldly  received — and  yet  there  is  no  heart 
that  beats  so  responsive  to  the  voice  of  humanity  as  that  of  Walt  Whitman. 
The  critics  refused  to  acknowledge  him  a  poet,  because  he  failed  to  write 
according  to  any  of  their  rules  of  rhyme.  He  read  his  lines  in  the  book  of 
Nature.  To  express  one's  thoughts  musically  is  a  most  valuable  gift,  but  it  is 
necessary  for  the  poet  to  have  something  to  reveal.  The  heart  of  to-day  seeks 
to  express  itself  in  its  own  way.  Millions  still  wear  the  manacles  of  yesterday, 
but  it  is  without  enthusiasm.  The  devotees  of  the  church  are  bound  by  a  law 
which  docs  not  satisfy  their  desires.  They  preach  a  salvation  from  hell. 
What  they  preach  is  hell.  Bondage  is  hell ;  freedom  is  heaven.  Shakespeare 
was  the  Pacific  Ocean  of  poetry;  Whitman  is  the  Atlantic.  The  one  carries 
the  freight  of  kings  and  ([ueens,  and  the  romance  of  the  jiast;  across  the  other 
come  the  steamships  of  to-day's  commerce.  Other  poets  have  sung  of  the  pomps 
and  romances  of  high  lile,  but  Walt  Whitman  has  taken  up  the  commonest 
things  of  earth,  and  shown  their  relation  to  the  highest  human  life.  To  him  all 
the  bibles,  religions,  jjhilosophics  of  the  past  are  as  the  grass  of  yesterday. 
They  have  fed  the  world,  but  are  not  food  lor  the  present.  All  the  first  ait  of 
Leaves  of  Grass  is  taken  up  with  t!iis  thought.  If  men  and  women  would  listen 
to  the  teachings  of  this  true  poet  they  would  save  themselves  much  pain  and  error. 
It  is  our  right  to  enjoy  ourselves  in  our  own  way,  ]irovided  we  interfere  with 
the  rights  of  no  other  person.  Whitman  is  as  original  in  matter  as  in  manner. 
He  is  the  first  poet  of  true  Democracy.  All  through  his  book  he  pleads  the 
cause  of  the  despised  and  down-trodden.  He  demolishes  all  distinctions 
drawn  by  church  and  state.  Walt  Whitman  cannot  come  to  his  own  to-day 
because  the  church  has  preempted  the  land  which  he  could  profitably  occupy. 
He  can  afford  to  wait  until,  as  he  says,  there  shall  be  no  more  priests.  His 
idea  of  Democracy  is  different  from  that  of  the  politicians.  It  means  that  the 
wise  and  strong  are  to  use  their  wisdom  and  -strength  for  the  benefit  of  all.    De- 


232  Appendix  to  Part  II. 

niocracy  means  equality  of  opportunity  and  right.  Air,  water  and  land  should 
be  coninion  to  all  under  a  wInc  mana_mnicnt.  Aljyolute  posse^bion  of  laud 
will  some  d.iy  be  lookcil  at  iu  the  same  lii^lit  as  absolute  possession  of  men 
and  women.  Neither  should  to  day  lie  permitted  to  i)Ut  claims  on  to-morrow. 
It  should  i)e  held  a  crime  to  he(|Uealh  fortunes  to  perpetuate  a  jjolitical  or  reli- 
j;ious  creed.  Woman  must  become  in  law  as  sJie  is  in  fact  the  e([ual  of  man 
before  the  true  l)eni()cracy  can  be  had. 

The  lecturer  read  Whitman's  poem  addressed  to  a  Common  Prostitute,  and 
said  that  on  account  of  his  publishing  that  poem  in  his  pai)er  he  was  greatly 
annoyed  by  I'ostmastcr  Tobey  of  Boston.  He  claims  that  the  lines  arr; 
jnire  and  chaste  when  read  understandingly  in  connection  with  the  whole 
book.  For  this  charity  of  Whitman's  toward  all  Magdalens  he  has  been  per- 
secuted in  business  and  person,  and  classed  with  those  who  secretly  corrujit 
the  virtue  of  youth.  He  fnids  it  necessary  to  treat  of  sex.  In  writiui^  of  this 
subject  he  uses  some  expressions  which  are  objected  to.  He  says  that  there 
have  been  two  ways  of  treating  these  subjects,  one  the  conventional  methcjd 
of  absolute  silence,  the  other  in  the  vulgar  words  which  come  from  masculine 
mouths.  The  sjieaker  here  interpolated  a  story  of  his  first  loss  of  faith  in  the 
purity  of  the  Christian  Church  when  he  found  himself  in  the  company  of  three 
ministers  who  regaled  each  f)ther  fcjr  an  entire  evening  with  smutty  stories. 
In  camji-meeting  while  part  of  the  preachers  are  thundering  to  better  men 
than  themselves  to  repent  or  be  damned,  the  others  are  regaling  each  other 
in  this  delicate  fashion  in  the  privacy  of  their  tents. 

In  closing,  the  speaker  said  that  there  were  some  passages  in  Leaves  of 
Grass  which  he  ha(l  not  and  could  not  read  to  the  audience,  not  because  the 
jioetry  was  impure,  but  because  the  niiufls  of  his  hearers  were  in  such  a  condi- 
tion that  the  poet's  words  would  raise  impure  thoughts. 

From  the  Philadelphia  "  Progress,^''  Novewber  rr,  rSSa, 

Wai.t  Whitman's  Late  Ii.lni:ss. — Dressed  in  a  plain  but  handsome  new 
suit  of  iron  gray,  all  of  a  jiiece,  loose  and  old-fashioned,  yet  a  certain  dashy 
style  of  its  own,  "  the  jioet  of  future  Democracy,"  as  Thoreau  once  termed 
him— up  again  from  his  recent  severe  sickness — resumed,  last  week,  his 
occasional  mid-day  saunters  along  Chestnut  street.  The  whole  rig,  and  the 
generous-crow  ned  light  hat  of  soft  French  beaver,  that  always  surmounts  its 
stalwart  six-feet  height,  showed  that  free  and  large  physicjue  not  unbecom- 
ingly. 

It  is  not  generally  known  that  Walt  Whitman's  frequent  spells  of  paralysis 
and  sickness,  the  last  hfteen  years,  are  legacies  from  his  overstrained  labors 
in  the  Secession  War.  Never  was  there  a  grander  and  more  perfect  physique 
than  he  threw  into  that  contest  in  1862,  with  all  the  ardo.  of  his  nature,  and 
continued  till  1865,  not  as  the  destroyer  of  life,  but  its  saviour,  as  volunteer 
army  nurse  and  missionary,  night  and  day,  tlirough  the  w  hole  of  three  unin- 
termitled  years,  always  tending  the  Southern  wounded  just  the  same  as  the 
Northern.  Well  has  it  been  claimed  for  him  that  behind  his  books  stand  the 
unrivalled  deeds  of  his  personal  career. 

He  told  me  last  week  that  in  the  two  Philadelphia  volumes  just  issued,  the 
one  comprising  his  entire  poetic  Leaves,  and  the  other,  Specimen  Days,  g\\'\r\Q 
his  autobiography  and  collected  prose  writings — both  volumes  printed  solely 
under  his  own  eye  and  direction — he  has  put  himself  on  record  for  the  future, 
"for  good  or  bad,  hit  or  miss,"  as  he  phrased  it;  and  that  he  shall  bother 
himself  about  the  whole  matter  no  further. 


"  The  Value  of  Whitman  in  Literature''  233 

IVilliam  Sloane  Kennedy,  Massachusetts.  {Exrerpts). 

Walt  Whitman  is  not  a  man  ulio  can  be  dcscrilicd  by  comparison  or  by 
antithesis.  No  genius  can  be  so  described.  If  you  will  give  nie  an  adeiiuate 
account  of  a  cuijic  nule  of  sea-water  or  !)lue  ellier,  measure  the  work  of  the 
sun,  the  beauty  of  tlie  morning  star,  or  the  inlluence  of  the  starry  midnight 
upon  the  soul,  then  1  will  give  you  an  ade(|uate  account  of  this  man.  He  is 
not  immoral,  but  unmoral,  as  a  faun  or  a  satyr;  a  djnamic  force,  an  animate 
fragment  of  the  universe,  a  destroyer  of  shams,  a  li\e  fightei  upon  the  stage 
("  im  liintergrund  wimmclt's  von  genialten  Soldaten."). 

Don't  go  to  him  expecting  everything  of  him.  Don't  expect  to  find  an  ar- 
tist. Don't  a.-^k  for  music.  Be  satisfied  with  the  grand  thoui,ht,  the  manly 
faith  in  democracy,  the  occasional  majestic  rhythm  and  jioetry,  the  subtle 
spirituality,  the  antique  strength  and  fresh  savagery,  the  handling  of  vast 
masses  of  matter  and  spanning  of  gulfs  of  space  and  time  with  an  ease  and 
sureness  never  exhibited  by  any  other  poet.  If  you  are  inclined  to  laugh  at 
Whitman's  weaknesses  and  absurdities,  do  so  by  all  means;  it  is  right  that 
you  should.  But  if  you  are  inclined  to  underrate  his  real  strength,  just  at- 
tempt to  draw  his  bow,  and  see  how  ridiculous  will  be  your  failure.  There 
is  not  a  man  living  who  can  write  anything  that  will  come  within  a  thousand 
miles  of  such  compositions  as  Whitman's  "Song  of  Myself,"  "Crossing  Brook- 
lyn Ferry,"  "  Burial  Hymn  of  Lincoln,"  "  Calamus,"  "  Eidolons,"  his  sea 
pieces,  etc. ;  and  no  one  but  Carlyle  could  write  such  prose  as  the  best  of 
Whitman's.  For  my  part,  I  despair  of  being  able  to  completely  analyze  him, 
so  revolutionary  is  he,  so  infmitely  suggestive.  A  man,  who,  in  his  philoso- 
phy, has  oriented  himself  by  the  perihelion  and  aphelion  of  the  earth's  orbit; 
who  has  taken  the  parallax  of  stars  sunken  deep  beyond  the  vision  of  others' 
eyes,  and  whose  diameters  of  faith  span  all  gulf;>  of  despair, — this  is  one  whom 
I  can  trust  and  respect,  but  can  with  difticulty  fathom. 

It  is  the  few  men  of  tremendous  native  force  of  character,  appearing  at  long 
intervals  in  history,  that  redeem  literature  from  its  vapidity  and  chafiiness. 
The  value  of  Whitman  in  literature  is,  that  in  among  the  idiotic  dandies  and 
dolls  of  book  characters  he  has  placed  A  LIVK  MAN,  with  all  his  sins  and  cru- 
dities, his  brawn  and  blood,  sexuality  and  burliness,  as  well  as  his  noble  and 
refined  qualities.  The  effect  and  the  shock  of  this  upon  the  morbid  mental 
condition  of  the  popular  mind  of  the  day,  is  like  that  which  would  be  pro- 
duced by  suddenly  producing  a  nude  figure  of  Angelo's,  or  an  undraped  IJac- 
chus,  in  a  ladies'  sewing  circle  of  a  Methodist  church. 

As  the  author  of  Leaves  of  Grass  himself  says,  in  his  article  in  the  "North 
American  Review,"  for  June,  1882,  the  cosmical  completeness  of  his  work 
would  have  been  injured  by  his  omission  to  present  the  matter  of  sex.  There 
is  architectural  proportion  in  the  plan  of  his  writings.  As  in  anticjue  sculp- 
ture all  jiarts  of  the  body  are  faithfully  reproduced,  so  in  Whitman's  writings 
is  all  Nature  reflected,  and  in  proper  proportion.  Sexuality,  fatherhood,  and 
motherhood  are  themes  which  he  treats  only  in  two  or  three  of  his  earlier 
poems;  and,  unquestionably,  they  should  have  been  sung  by  so  universal  a 
poet — only  in  a  more  delicate  way. 

Let  me  close  this  topic  by  (|uoting  the  following  passage  from  H.  R.  Haweis's 
excellent  work  on  "  Music  and  Morals:"  "  In  some  of  the  Gothic  cathedrals  we 
may  have  noticeil  strange  figures  hiding  in  nooks  and  corners,  or  obtrusively 
claiming  attention  as  water-spouts.  Some  of  them  are  revolting  enough,  but 
they  are  not  to  be  r.evered  from  their  connection  with  the  whole  building. 
That  is  the  work  of  art;  these  are  but  the  details,  and  only  some  of  the  details. 
How  n;any  statues  are  there  in  all  those  niches  ? — let  us  say  a  thousand.  You 

30 


234  Appendix  to  Part  II, 

shall  find  seventy  pure  virgins  praying  in  long  robes,  and  forty  nionl<s  and 
apostles  and  bishops,  and  angels  in  choirs,  and  archangels  standing  high  and 
alone  upon  lofty  fagade  and  pinnacle  and  tower  ;  and  around  the  corner  of  the 
roof  shall  be  two  devils  prosvling,  or  a  hideous-looking  villain  in  great  pain, 
or  (as  in  Cliester  cathedral),  there  may  be  a  proportion — a  very  small  propor- 
tion— of  obscene  hgures,  hard  and  true  and  pitiless.  '  What  scandalous  subjects 
for  church  decoration  !'  some  may  exclaim;  yet  the  whole  impression  produced 
is  a  profoundly  moral  one.  The  sculptor  has  given  you  the  life  he  saw  ;  but  he 
has  given  it  from  a  really  high  standpoint,  and  all  is  moral  because  all  is  in 
healthy  proportion.  There  is  degradation,  but  there  is  also  divine  beauty ; 
there  is  passionate  and  despairing  sin,  but  there  is  also  calmness  and  victory; 
there  are  devils,  but  they  are  intinitely  outnumbered  by  angels;  there  lurks 
the  blur  of  human  depravity,  but  as  we  pass  out  beneath  groups  of  long- 
robed  saints  in  prayer  the  thought  of  sin  fades  out  before  a  dream  of  divine 
purity  and  peace.  We  can  see  what  the  artist  loved  and  what  he  taught; 
that  is  the  right  test,  and  we  may  take  any  man's  work  as  a  whole,  and  apply 
that  test  fearlessly." 

And  what  a  diction  he  has!  His  monosyllabic  Saxon  epithets  somehow 
have  imparted  to  them  the  crisp  and  crude  freshness  of  the  natural  objects 
themselves  to  which  they  are  applied.  And  his  style  is  by  no  means  sponta- 
neous. I  have  personal  knowledge  that  he  has  always  kept  in  view  the  advice 
given  by  Beranger  to  a  brother  poet,  namely,  that  he  should  keep  clear  of  all 
hack  writers,  and  study  words,  words,  words.  Whitman's  words  are  alive. 
His  pages  snap  and  crackle  with  vitality.  Like  Homer,  he  gives  us  actions, 
and  not  descriptions  of  actions.  Something  in  the  movement  of  his  periods, 
like  the  blind  resistless  /m'^  of  growing  wood  fibre,  the  erratic  and  ponderous 
push  of  writhen  oak  knots. 

If  there  remains  anything  to  be  said  it  is  this :  Throw  aside  the  present  ar- 
ticle, and  all  articles  about  this  great  man,  and  go  read  his  books.  One  result 
will  be  inevitable — you  will  discover  your  own  limitations. 


From  "  The  Herald^  Boston,  October  ijtk,  1883. 

The  Prose  Writings  of  the  "  Good  Gray  Poet."  A  Twin  Volume 
TO  "  Leaves  of  Grass." — Walt  Whitman's  new  book,  with  the  odd,  but 
thoroughly  characteristic  and  descriptive  title.  Specimen  Days  ami  Collect,  is 
a  prose  companion  to  Leaves  of  Grass,  being  a  complete  collection  of  the 
author's  prose  writings,  as  the  former  comprises  all  his  verse.  It  is  a  meaty, 
compact  volume,  and  is  more  directly  comprehensible  to  the  understanding 
of  the  multitude  than  the  greater  and  more  famous  work.  And  yet  this  is  as 
much  Whitman  as  his  verse  is,  and  the  same  characteristics  pervade  it :  grand 
healthiness  of  tone,  largeness  of  view,  universal  reach,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
delicate  perception  and  sensitiveness,  and  identity  with  Nature,  indissoluble 
and  knit  through  and  through  with  its  fabric.  Had  Leaves  of  Grass  never 
been  written,  this  book  alone  would  be  enough  to  establish  the  author's  fame 
as  a  great  poet. 

In  a  personal  letter.  Whitman  writes :  "  It  is  a  great  jumble  (as  man  him- 
self is) — an  autobiography  after  its  sort — (sort  o'  synonymous  with  Mon- 
taigne, and  Rousseau's  '  Confessions,'  etc.) — is  the  gathering  up  and  formula- 
tion and  putting  in  identity  of  the  wayside  itemizings,  memoranda,  and  per- 
sonal notes  of  fifty  years — a  good  deal  helter-skelter,  but,  I  am  sure,  with  a 
certain  sort  of  orbic  compaction  and  oneness  as  the  final  result.  It  dwells 
long  on  the  Secession  War,  gives  glimpses  of  that  event's  strange  interiors, 


**An  Autobiography  after  its  sort**  235 

especially  the  army  hospitals;  in  fact,  makes  the  resuscitation  and  putting  on 
record  of  the  emotional  aspect  of  the  War  of  1861-65  one  of  its  principal 
features." 

Indeed,  too  much  stress  cannot  be  laid  upon  this  latter  phase  of  the  book. 
No  history  or  descri|)tion  of  the  war  that  has  yet  been  written  probably  gives 
such  vivid  and  graphic  pictures  of  its  events — its  heroism,  its  horror,  its  sad- 
ness, the  pathetic  tenderness  of  countless  of  its  incidents,  and,  above  all,  its 
grand  significance.     For  this  reason  it  ought  to  be  dear  to  every  soldier. 

During  the  years  from  1873  totiie  present  date,  Whitman  has  been  a  partial 
paralytic.  Very  much  of  his  days  (and  nights,  also,  it  appears)  he  has  spent 
in  the  open  air  down  in  the  country  in  the  woods  and  fields,  and  by  a  secluded 
little  New  Jersey  river.  His  memoranda,  on  the  spot,  of  these  days  and 
nights,  fill  a  goodly  portion  of  the  volume. 

Then  comes  the  "  Collect,"  embodying  '♦  Democratic  Vistas,"  the  noble  prose 
Prefice  to  Leaves  of  Grass  of  the  edition  of  1855,  and  much  other  prose,  to- 
gether with  a  number  of  youthful  efforts  in  prose  and  poetry,  which,  in  a  note, 
the  author  explains  he  would  have  preferred  to  have  them  quietly  dropt  in 
oblivion,  but,  to  avoid  the  annoyance  of  their  surreptitious  issue,  he  has,  with 
some  qualms,  here  tacked  them  on. 

The  whole  volume,  in  its  arrangement,  is  pregnant  with  Whitman's  person- 
ality, and  it  seems  more  a  part  of  its  author  than  paper  and  printers'  ink  usually 
do.  It  also  exhibits,  as  far  as  possible  for  any  public  record,  that  most  won- 
derful and  intricate  of  processes,  the  workings  of  a  poet's  mind,  and  affords 
an  insight  into  the  mysterious  interior  depths  and  rambling  galleries  and  cham- 
bersof  the  cosmic  sphere  whose  large  and  rugged  exterior  is  clothed  with  the 
fresh  beauty  of  "  leaves  of  grass." 

From  "  The  Press,''  Philadelphia,  March  iSth,  1883. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson's  cordial  letter  to  Walt  Whitman  "  at  the  beginning 
of  a  great  career,"  has  become  familiar  in  American  literature.  Of  scarcely 
less  interest  is  Emerson's  frank  personal  estimate  of  the  new  poet  in  a  letter 
written  to  Carlyle  in  1856,  when  the  flat,  thin  quarto  was  unknown  to  the 
general,  or  for  that  matter,  to  any  reader.  "  One  book  came  out  last  summer 
in  Now  York,"  Emerson  writes,  "  a  nondescript  monster,  which  yet  had 
terrible  eyes  and  buffalo  strength,  and  was  indisputably  American.  It  is  called 
Leaves  of  Grass.  After  you  have  looked  into  it,  if  you  think,  as  you  may, 
that  it  is  only  an  auctioneer's  inventory  of  a  warehouse,  you  can  light  your 
pipe  with  it." 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  improve  on  this  today  as  the  transcription  of  a  first 
impression.  "  Nondescript"  and  a  "  monster"  Leaves  of  Grass  unquestion- 
ably was  by  all  literary  canons  with  which  either  Carlyle  or  Emerson  were 
familiar;  but  the  ?:een  critical  spirit  of  the  Concord  philosopher  felt,  rather 
than  saw,  the  coming  power  looming  great  through  the  mist  of  forms  strange 
and  new  in  literature.  For  the  rest,  the  neat  suggestion  that  Carlyle  would 
be  opaque  to  the  new  light  is  admirable. 

From  the  Sydney,  Australia,  "Evetiifig  JVeu's,"  March  21st,  i88j. 

American  Freethoucjht  and  Freethinkers. — On  Monday  evening  a 
crowded  audie.ice  assembled  in  the  Masonic  Hall  to  hear  a  lecture  by  Mr. 
Charles  Bright  on  "American  F"rcethought  and  Freethinkers."  Some  fifteen 
months  ago  he  took  a  trip  to  America  for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  and  he  has 


236  Appendix  to  Part  IT, 

returned  to  Sydney  with  a  considerably  augmented  knowledge  of  the  progress 
ol  thought  ill  the  Great  Republic.  He  spoke  for  nearly  two  hours,  and  gave 
a  (leal  of  interesting  information  concerning  the  advanced  thinkers  of  the 
country,  and  the  inlluence  they  exercise  on  the  progress  of  thought  in  the 
direction  of  mental  liberty.  Of  the  many  freethinkers  he  had  met  he  ranked 
Walt  Whitman,  the  poet,  highest.  W'hitman  was  the  grandest  and  best  man 
in  every  sense,  morally,  intellectually,  and  physically,  he  had  ever  met  in  his 
life — a  prophet  poet,  who  was  as  far  in  advance  of  other  writers  and  thinkers 
in  the  present  day  as  Isaiah  and  Jeremiah  were  in  advance  of  their  conlem- 
poraries. 

ROBERT  BUCHANAN  TO  W^ALT  WHITMAN. 
From  "  Faces  on  th:  IVa//." 

Friend  Whitman !  wert  thou  less  serene  and  kind, 

Surely  thou  mightest  (like  the  Bard  sublime, 
Scorned  by  a  generation  deaf  and  blind), 

Make  thine  appeal  to  the  avenger  Time; 

For  thou  art  none  of  those  who  upward  climb, 
Gathering  roses  with  a  vacant  mind. 
Ne'er  have  thy  hands  for  jaded  triflers  twined 

Sick  flowers  of  rhetoric  and  weeds  of  rhyme. 
Nay,  thine  hath  been  a  Prophet's  stormier  fate. 
While  Lincoln  and  the  martyr'd  legions  wait 

In  the  yet  widening  blue  of  yonder  sky. 
On  the  great  strand  below  them  thou  art  seen, 
Blessing,  with  something  Christ-like  in  thy  mien, 

A  sea  of  turbulent  lives,  that  break  and  die. 


Walt  Whitman's   Works 

POEMS  AND  PROSE  — TWO  VOLUMES. 

LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 

Comprises  all  the  author's  Poetical  Works  down  to  date,  1883. 
Two  hundred  and  ninety-three  Poems.  Includes  all  previous 
issues — the  Brooklyn  one,  1855;  the  New  York,  i856-'57;  the 
Boston,  i860;  the  (second)  New  York,  1866;  the  Washington, 
1871;  the  Camden,  1876 — and  the  Boston,  1881.  Contains 
every  page,  line,  and  word  attempted  to  be  officially  suppressed 
by  Attorney-General  Marston  of  Massachusetts,  District  Attor- 
ney Stevens  of  Boston,  and  (until  countermanded  by  the  Gov- 
ernment) excluded  from  the  mails  by  U.  S.  Postmaster  Tobey. 

Walt  Whitman  himself  considers  this  Philadelphia  edition — 
which  has  been  printed  under  his  own-  personal  oversight,  with 
final  revision  and  touches — the  only  full  and  authentic  collection 
of  his  Verse. 

A  handsome  i2mo.  book,  with  characteristic  Portrait  of  the 
Poet  from  life  in  Brooklyn,  in  1856,  382  pages,  best  paper  and 
print,  long  primer  type,  cloth  binding,  gilt. 

Price  $2.00. — Sent  by  mail  to  any  address^  post-paid^  on 

receipt  of  price. 

DAVID  McKAY,  Publisher, 

23  SOUTH  NINTH  STREET,  PHILADELPHIA. 

SPECIMEN  DATS  and  COLLECT. 

COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 

A  full  Compendium  of  the  author's  Prose  Writings,  old  and 
new.  Gives  Mr.  Whitman's  early  days  on  Long  Island  and 
young  manhood  in  New  York  city — copious  War  and  Army  Hos- 
pital memoranda  (i862-'65) — convalescent  Out-door  Notts  in 

(239) 


the  country  (i876-'8i) — literary  Criticisms,  including,  at  some 
length,  an  estimate  of  Carlyle — Jaunts  over  the  Great  Plains, 
and  along  the  rivers  St.  Lawrence  and  Saguenay. 

The  COLLECT  includes  "  Democratic  Vistas*'  and  all  his 
Political  and  Critical  Writings,  and  youthful  sketches. 

A  handsome  i2mo.  Volume,  with  characteristic  Portrait  from 
life  of  Wait  Whitman,  in  1879  374  pages,  best  paper  and 
print,  long  primer  type,  cloth  binding,  gilt.  A  companion 
volume  to  the  Poems. 

Price  $2.00. — Sent  by  mail  to  any  address^  post-paid,  on 

receipt  of  price. 

DAVID  McKAY,  Publisher, 

23  SOUTH  NINTH  STREET,  PHILADELPHIA. 

'^§^  The  three  volumes,  T, eaves  of  Grass,  Spfcimkn  Days,  and  Dr. 
Bucke's  Wai.'i  Whitman,  will  be  supplied  for  Five  Dollars. 


MAN'S  MORAL  NATURE. 

Bv  RICHARD  MAURICE  BUCKE,  M.D. 


CONTENTS. 


CnAPTER   I. 

Lines  of  Cleavage. 

Chapter  II. 
The  Moral  Nature  and  its  Limits. 

Chapter  III. 

The    Physical    Basis  of    the    Moral 
Nature. 

Chapter  IV. 

Is  the  Moral  Nature  a  Fixed  Quan- 
tity? 


Chapter  V. 


The  History  of  the  Development  of 
the  Moral  Nature. 

Chapter  VI. 

The  Inference  to  be  drawn  from  the 
Development  of  the  Moral  Nature 
as  to  the  Essential  Fact  of  the 
Universe. 


Price  $r.JO. 

Published  by  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS, 
27  &  29  WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STREET,  NSW  YORK. 
(  240 ) 


